His theme was taken up by a cricket in the grass until he himself was ready to resume it. The cricket too seemed to fancy that in some scheme of its own it had got there. “Chirrrrrrup” it said; “chirrrrrrup.” “Lord, what a place that was at Wimblehurst!” he broke out. “If ever I get a day off we’ll motor there, George, and run over that dog that sleeps in the High Street. Always was a dog asleep there—always. Always... I’d like to see the old shop again. I daresay old Ruck still stands between the sheep at his door, grinning with all his teeth, and Marbel, silly beggar! comes out with his white apron on and a pencil stuck behind his ear, trying to look awake... Wonder if they know it’s me? I’d like ’em somehow to know it’s me.” “They’ll have had the International Tea Company and all sorts of people cutting them up,” I said. “And that dog’s been on the pavement this six years—can’t sleep even there, poor dear, because of the motor-horns and its shattered nerves.” “Movin’ everywhere,” said my uncle. “I expect you’re right.... It’s a big time we’re in, George. It’s a big Progressive On-coming Imperial Time. This Palestine business—the daring of it.... It’s, it’s a Process, George. And we got our hands on it. Here we sit—with our hands on it, George. Entrusted. “It seems quiet to—night. But if we could see and hear.” He waved his cigar towards Leatherhead and London. “There they are, millions, George. Jes’ think of what they’ve been up to to-day—those ten millions—each one doing his own particular job. You can’t grasp it. It’s like old Whitman says—what is it he says? Well, anyway it’s like old Whitman. Fine chap, Whitman! Fine old chap! Queer, you can’t quote him. ... And these millions aren’t anything. There’s the millions over seas, hundreds of millions, Chinese, M’rocco, Africa generally, ’Merica.... Well, here we are, with power, with leisure, picked out—because we’ve been energetic, because we’ve seized opportunities, because we’ve made things hum when other people have waited for them to hum. See? Here we are—with our hands on it. Big people. Big growing people. In a sort of way,—Forces.” He paused. “It’s wonderful, George,” he said. “Anglo-Saxon energy,” I said softly to the night. “That’s it, George—energy. It’s put things in our grip—threads, wires, stretching out and out, George, from that little office of ours, out to West Africa, out to Egypt, out to Inja, out east, west, north and south. Running the world practically. Running it faster and faster. Creative. There’s that Palestine canal affair. Marvellous idee! Suppose we take that up, suppose we let ourselves in for it, us and the others, and run that water sluice from the Mediterranean into the Dead Sea Valley—think of the difference it will make! All the desert blooming like a rose, Jericho lost for ever, all the Holy Places under water.... Very likely destroy Christianity.”...