quoth the billion friends of Chamberlain.

"Keep the Germans well-informed,"

demanded all our readers of newspapers.

"Let's send our men to save democracy,"

harangued the flat-foot politician.

"Be not afraid to die for great ideals,"

the undertaker whispered.

Then a young man (he was neither an old man, nor an international banker, nor a preacher, nor an old lady, nor yet an airplane manufacturer, nor an exporter to Japan, nor a Versailles potentate, nor one of Chamberlain's many friends, nor a news-paper reader, nor a flat-foot politicians, nor an undertaker) said:

"Do you mind if I talk this over with my friends, who are neither old, nor international bankers nor preachers nor airplane manufacturer nor exporters to Japan nor Versailles potentates nor Chamberlain's friends nor newspaper readers nor flat-footed politicians nor undertakers?"

It was a fairly polite question.

"Blasphemer," cried the old man.

"Gangster," droned the international banker.

"Immoral," hurled the preacher, still in his pulpit.

"Petticoat," stretched the old lady.

"Hearbless," snorted the airplane makers.