. . .you are right,
One must become fanatic—be a wedge
A thunderbolt—to smite a passage
Through the close-grained world.—John Davidson
TWO men were conversing in a time-honored castle in England. A short, heavy, bearded man puffed a black cigar “fat as a capstan bar” and listened. A smooth-shaved, compact, bulletheaded man in a morning coat was talking. The man talking grew excited; he punctuated his explosive sentences with sweeps of his arm, and from time to time his fist shook under the nose of the bearded man like the hammer of an erratic riveter. As the monologue grew in dramatic force and the gestures of the talker became more violent, the bearded man good-naturedly stopped the menacing fist—King Edward VII was taking a lesson in war, Holy Writ, Nelson, and water-tube boilers from his principal naval aide-de- camp, John Arbuthnot Fisher, Baron of Kilverstone and Admiral of the Fleet.