Right there is where
the blood of the Galahads tells. Supremely he rises above temptation!
Gracefully he sidesteps! Innocently he falls asleep!
I don't believe a word of it. I think it's just a case of literary men
sticking together.
Two days after the Grand Banquet described in the last chapter, Whinney,
Swank and I awoke with a sigh of simultaneous satisfaction, completely
rested and restored. Ten minutes later we were engaged in a brisk
debate in which the question before the house was, stated boldly,
Should we or should we not "go native?" In other words, should we hold
ourselves aloof, live contrary to the customs of the country and
mortally offend our hosts,--to say nothing of our hostesses,--or
should we fulfil our destinies, take unto ourselves island brides and
eat our equatorial fruit, core and all?
For the purpose of discussion Whinney was designated to uphold the
negative, and for an hour we argued the matter pro and con. Whinney
advanced a number of arguments, the difference in our nationalities,
our standing in our home communities (which I thought an especially
weak point), our lack of a common language, and several other trivial
objections, all of which Swank and I demolished until Whinney got
peevish and insisted that he and I change sides.
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