I’m a great yin for consistency.  Men are consistent—­mair than women, I think.  My wife will no agree with that, but it shall stand in spite of her.  I’ll be maister in my ain book, even if I canna be such in my ain hoose!  And when it comes to all this talk of Bolshevism, I’m wondering how the ones that are for it would like it if their principles were really applied consistently to everything?

Tak’ the theatre, just for an example.  I mind a time when there was nearly a strike.  It was in America, once, and I was on tour in the far West.  Wall Morris, he that takes care of all such affairs for me, had given me a grand company.  On those tours, ye ken, I travel with my ain company.  That time there were my pipers, of coorse—­it wouldna be my performance without those braw laddies.  And there was a bonnie lassie to sing Scots songs in her lovely voice—­a wee bit of a lassie she was, that surprised you with the strength of her voice when she sang.

There was a dancer, and some Japanese acrobats, and a couple more turns—­another singer, a man, and two who whistled like birds.  And then there was just me, tae come on last.

Weel, there’d be trouble, once in sae often, aboot how they should gae on.  None of them liked tae open the show; they thocht they were too good for that.  And so they were, all of them, bless their hearts.  There was no a bad act amang the lot.  But still—­some one had to appear first!  And some one had to give orders.  I forget, the noo, just how it was settled, but settled it was, at any rate, and all was peaceful and happy.

And then, whoever it was that did open got ill one nicht, and there was a terrible disturbance.  No one was willing to take the first turn.  And for a while it looked as if we could no get it settled any way at all.  So I said that I would open the show, and they could follow, afterward, any way they pleased—­or else that so and so must open, and no more argument.  They did as I said.

But now, suppose there’d been a Bolshevik organization of the company?  Suppose each act had had a vote in a council.  Each one would have voted for a different one to open, and the fight could never have been settled.  It took some one to decide it—­and a way of enforcing the decision—­to mak’ that simple matter richt.

I’m afraid of these Bolsheviki because I don’t think they know just what they are doing.  I can deal with a man, whether I agree with him or no, if he just knows what it is he wants to do, and how.  I’ll find some common ground that we can both stand on while we have out our differences.  But these folk aren’t like that.  They say what they don’t mean.  And they tell you, if you complain of that, they are interested only in the end they want to attain, and that the means they use don’t matter.

Folk like that make an agreement never meaning to stick to it, ust to get the better of you for a little while.  They mak’ any promise you demand of them to get you quieted and willing to leave them alone, and then when the time comes and it suits them they’ll break it, and laugh in your face.  I’m not guessing or joking.  And it’s not the Bolshevists in Russia I’m thinking of—­it’s the followers of them in Britain and America, no matter what they choose to call themselves.