good work, among the Syrian voters, for Democracy’s Candidate this campaign. Here is a chance which, with a little hustling on your part, will materialise. And I see no reason why you should not try to cash your influence among your people. This is no mean position, mind you. And if you will come up to the Wigwam tomorrow, I’ll give you a few suggestions on the business
And the said Mr. Hoolihan, the letter shows, is Secretary to Mr. O’Donohue, who is first henchman to the Boss. Such a letter, if luckily misunderstood, will fire for a while the youthful imagination. No; not his Shamrag Majesty’s Tammany Agent to Syria, this Canvassership, you poor phantom-like zany! A high post, indeed, you fond and pitiful dreamer, on which you must hang the higher aspirations of your soul, together with your theory of immanent morality. You would not know this at first. You would still kiss the official notification of Mr. Hoolihan, and hug it fondly to your breast. Very well. At last—and the gods will not damn thee for musing—you will stand in the bandwagon before the corner groggery and be the object of the admiration of your fellow citizens—perhaps of missiles, too. Very well, Khalid; but you must shear that noddle of thine, and straightway, for the poets are potted in Tammany Land. We say this for your sake.
The orator-dream of youth, ye gods, shall it be realised in this heaven of a dray-cart with its kerosene torch and its drum, smelling and sounding rather of Jahannam?
Surely, from the Table of Bohemia to the Stump in Tammany Land, is a far cry. But believe us, O Khalid, you will wish you were again in the gardens of Proserpine, when the silence and darkness extinguish the torch and the drum and the echoes of the shouting crowds.
The headaches are certain to follow this inebriation. You did not believe Shakib; you would not be admonished; you would go to the Wigwam for your portfolio.