I love a good fight, and have been told I ought to be ashamed of it.
I've noticed, though, that the folk who propose to elevate my morals
fight just as hard, and less cleanly, with their tongue than some of us
do with our fists and sinews. I'm told, too, quite frequently that as
an American I ought to be ashamed of fighting for a king. Dear old
ladies of both sexes have assured me that it isn't moral to give aid and
comfort to a gallant gentleman--a godless Mohammedan, too; which makes
it much worse--who is striving gamely and without malice to keep his
given word and save his country.

But if you've got all you want, do you know of any better fun than
lending a hand while some man you happen to like gets his? I don't. Of
course, some fellows want too much, and it's bad manners as well as
waste of time to inflict your opinion on them. But given a reasonable
purpose and a friend who needs your assistance, is there any better
sport on earth than risking your own neck to help him put it over?

Walk wide of the man and particularly of the woman, who makes a noise
about lining your pocket or improving your condition. An altruist is my
friend James Schuyler Grim, but he makes less noise than a panther on a
dark night; and I never knew a man less given to persuading you. He
has one purpose, but almost never talks about it. It's a sure bet that
if we hadn't struck up a close friendship, sounding each other out
carefully as opportunity occurred, I would have been in the dark about
it until this minute.

All the news of Asia from Alexandretta to the Persian Gulf and from
Northern Turkestan to South Arabia reaches Grim's ears sooner or later.
He earns his bread and butter knitting all that mess of cross-grained