never lived
up to any consciously organized plan. If I had any God in those days I
suppose I named him 'Culture'; or worse still 'Good Taste.' Not much of
a god for these times," I added.

"Oh, I don't know," Dalton struck in; "I'm not so sure of that! I can't
see that these times differ much from any others. There's a big war on,
yes; but that's nothing new, is it? Looks to me pretty much like the
same old planet, right now. Never was much of a planet for the great
majority; never will be. A few of us get all the prizes--always have.
Some of us partly deserve 'em, but most of us just happen to be lucky. I
don't see anything that's likely to change that arrangement. Do you?"

"They've changed it in Russia," I suggested.

"Not a bit!" exclaimed Dalton. "Some different people have taken their
big chance and climbed on top, that's all! I doubt if they stay there
long; still, they may. That fellow Lenine, now; he has a kind of
well-up-in-the-saddle feel to him. Quite a boy, I've no doubt; and if he
sticks, I congratulate him! It's the one really amusing place to be."

"You sound like a Junker war-lord," I smiled. "Fortunately, I know your
bark, and I've never seen you bite."

"My dear Hunt," said Dalton, lowering his voice, "my teeth are
perfectly sound, I assure you; and I've always used 'em when I had to,
believe _me_. It's the law of life, as I read it. And just here between
ourselves, eh--cutting out all the nonsense we've learned to babble--do
you see any difference between a Junker war-lord and a British Tory
peer--or an American capitalist? Any real difference, I mean? I'm all
for licking Germany if we can, because if we don't she'll control the
cream supply of the world. But I can't blame her for wanting to, and if
she gets away with it--which the devil forbid!--we'll all mighty soon
forget all the nasty things we've been saying about her and begin trying
to lick her Prussian boots instead of her armies! That's so, and you
know it! Why, the most sickening thing about this war, Hunt, isn't the
loss of life--that may be a benefit to us all in the end; no sir, it's
the moral buncombe it's let loose! That man Wilson simply sweats the
stuff day and night, drenches us with it--till we stink like a church of
Easter lilies. Come now! Doesn't it all, way down in your tummy
somewhere, give you a good honest griping pain?"

I stared at him. Yes; the man was evidently in earnest; was even, I
could see, expecting me to sm