“The virgin Red Indian fell for the Firewater of the Paleface as soon as it was presented to him. For Firewater, sir, he parted with his lands, his integrity, an’ his future. What is he now? An Ethnological Survival under State Protection. You get me? Immunise, or virg’nise, the Cit’zen of the United States to alcohol, an’ you as surely redooce him to the mental status an’ outlook of that Redskin. _That_ is the Ne-mee-sis of Prohibition. And the Process has begun, sir. Haven’t you noticed it already”--he gulped--“among Our People?” “Well,” I said. “Men don’t always act as they preach, of course.” “You won’t abrade _my_ National Complex. What’s the worst you’ve seen in connection with Our People--and Rum?” The round lenses were full on me. I chanced it. “I’ve seen one of ’em on a cross-Channel boat, talking Prohibition in the bar--pretty full. He had three drinks while I listened.” “I thought you said you’d never quit England?” he replied. “Oh, we don’t count France,” I amended hastily. “Then was you ever at Monte Carlo? No? Well, I was--this spring. One of our tourist steamers unloaded three hundred of ’em at the port o’ Veel Franshe; and they went off to Monte Carlo to dine. I saw ’em, sir, come out of the dinner-hall of that vast Hotel opp’site the Cassino there, not drunk, but all--_all_ havin’ drink taken. In that hotel lounge after that meal, I saw an elderly cit’zen up an’ kiss eight women, none of ’em specially young, sittin’ in a circle on the settees; the rest of his crowd applaudin’. Folk just shrugged their shoulders, and the French nigger on the door, I heard him say: ‘It’s only the Yanks tankin’ up.’ It galled me. As a one-hundred-per-cent. American, it galled me unspeakably. And _you’ve_ observed the same thing durin’ the last few years?” I nodded. The face was working now in the yellow lights reflected from the close-buttoned raincoat. He dropped his hand on his knee and struck it again and again, before he steadied himself with the usual snap and grind of his superb dentist-work.