“Of course,” said Somers. “What is Indian Nationalism but a strong bid for power--for tyranny. The Brahmins want their old absolute caste-power--the most absolute tyranny--back again, and the Mahommedans want their military tyranny. That’s what they are lusting for--to wield the rod again. Slavery for millions. Japan the same. And China, in part, the same. The niggers the same. The real sense of liberty only goes with white blood. And the ideal of democratic liberty is an exploded ideal. You’ve got to have wisdom and authority somewhere, and you can’t get it out of any further democracy.” “There!” said Jack. “That’s what I mean. We s’ll be wiped out, wiped out. And we know it. Look here, as man to man, you and me here: if you were an Australian, wouldn’t you do something if you could do something?” “I would.” “Whether you got shot or whether you didn’t! We went to France to get ourselves shot, for something that didn’t touch us very close either. Then why shouldn’t we run a bit of risk for what does touch us very close. Why, you know, with things as they are, _I_ don’t want Victoria and me to have any children. I’d a jolly sight rather not--and I’ll watch it too.” “Same with me,” yelled Somers. Jack had come closer to him, and was now holding him by the arm. “What’s a man’s life for, anyhow? Is it just to save up like rotten pears on a shelf, in the hopes that one day it’ll rot into a pink canary or something of that?” “No,” said Somers. “What we want in Australia,” said Jack, “isn’t a statesman, not yet. It’s a set of chaps with some guts in them, who’ll obey orders when they find a man who’ll give the orders.” “Yes.” “And we’ve got such men--we’ve got them. But we want to see our way clear. We don’t never feel quite _sure_ enough over here. That’s where it is. We sound as sure as a gas-explosion. But it’s all bang and no bump. We s’ll never raise no lids. We shall only raise the roof--or our politicians will--with shouting. Because we’re never quite sure. We know it when we meet you English people. You’re a lot surer than we are. But you’re mostly bigger fools as well. It takes a fool to be sure of himself, sometimes.” “Fact.” “And there’s where it is. Most Englishmen are too big cocked-up fools for us. And there you are. Their sureness may help them along to the end of the road, but they haven’t the wit to turn a corner: not a proper corner. And we can see it. They can only go back on themselves.” “Yes.” “You’re the only man I’ve met who seems to me sure of himself and what he means. I may be mistaken, but that’s how it seems to me. And William James knows it too. But it’s my belief William James doesn’t want you to come in, because it would spoil his little game.” “I don’t understand.” “I know you don’t. Now, look here. This is absolutely between ourselves, now, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “Certain?” “Yes.” Jack was silent for a time. Then he looked round the almost dark shore. The stars were shining overhead.