"I suppose," he said, "it's because I'm a Little Englander."
"I can never make out what you mean by that sort of thing," answered
Boyle, doubtfully.
"Do you think England is so little as all that?" said Fisher, with a
warmth in his cold voice, "that it can't hold a man across a few
thousand miles. You lectured me with a lot of ideal patriotism, my
young friend; but it's practical patriotism now for you and me, and
with no lies to help it. You talked as if everything always went
right with us all over the world, in a triumphant crescendo
culminating in Hastings. I tell you everything has gone wrong with
us here, except Hastings. He was the one name we had left to conjure
with, and that mustn't go as well, no, by God! It's bad enough that
a gang of infernal Jews should plant us here, where there's no
earthly English interest to serve, and all hell beating up against
us, simply because Nosey Zimmern has lent money to half the Cabinet.
It's bad enough that an old pawnbroker from Bagdad should make us
fight his battles; we can't fight with our right hand cut off. Our
one score was Hastings and his victory, which was really somebody
else's victory. Tom Travers has to suffer, and so have you."
Then, after a moment's silence, he pointed toward the bottomless
well and said, in a quieter tone:
"I told you that I didn't believe in the philosophy of the Tower of
Aladdin.
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