This insulting question—insulting precisely because it was silly, because it threw the whole earnest interview suddenly into the key of farce—did not for an instant shake the old gentleman’s aplomb. He appeared to reflect gravely, with finger-tips delicately joined and head cocked on one side, in his characteristic gesture. He smiled faintly, and spoke. “You have trenched,” he said, “upon an important public issue, and one not lightly to be discussed—a question of deep interest to hundreds of thousands of our fellow-countrymen. In fact, I have seldom been in any gathering of true Americans, when this question has not been raised. _Who struck Billy Patterson?_ Again and again have I heard men ask each other that question. And how seldom, if ever, has the reply been satisfactory! No, I say frankly to you, the reply has not been satisfactory. And so the question remains—like Banquo’s ghost, it will not down. Careless and unthinking statesmen may try to lead the people astray with talk of minor issues, such as the tariff, imperialism, and the conservation of natural resources, but the heart of the American people remains true. When the shouting and the tumult dies, and the senators go back to Washington, common men look at each other and ask, _Who struck Billy Patterson?_ It is a question that searches to the very vitals of our polity. We boast of our unexampled freedom, our magnificent opportunities; and rightly so. But justice, even-handed and sure, is the true foundation of a lasting prosperity. We know this, and we are humble before the Muse of History. Be it said in our behalf that others have not had to prod at our sleeping consciences. It is not because of outside criticism that we trouble ourselves over this matter. The Frenchman and the Turk do not point the finger of scorn at us; and even our brothers across the sea, speaking our own language, are probably ignorant of William Patterson’s very name. But we do not forget. And whatever happens, so long as this question remains unanswered, I venture to predict that no other issue will usurp its place; and on the heart of the last American will be written the solemn words: _Who struck Billy Patterson?_ Is there anything else?” So the old gentleman could play that game, too! “Well,” said Felix, “I _was_ going to ask you if—if you thought McPhairson Conglocketty Angus McClan got a square deal, but—” The old gentleman shook his head, still smiling. “I really don’t think it would be proper,” he said, “for me to discuss the internal affairs of the British Empire.” “And Noah’s Ark,” said Felix. “If you could express an opinion—” “It might be construed as a reflection upon the naval policy of the new administration.” “And as to what became of little Charley Ross?” “That,” said the old gentleman, “is something the national committee would prefer to remain, for the present, a secret.” Felix was beaten. “Thank you,” he said, and went away.