“Well, of course, these people are impossible socially,” John Parker admitted magnanimously, “but they do know how to make things grow.  They are not afraid of hard work.  Perhaps that is why they have supplanted the white farmers.”

“Indeed they do know how, Mr. Parker.  And they can produce good crops more cheaply than a white farmer.  A Japanese with a wife and two fairly well-grown daughters saves the wages of three hired men.  Thus he is enabled to work his ground more thoroughly.  When he leases land he tries to acquire rich land, which he robs of its fertility in three years and then passes on to renew the outrage elsewhere.  Where he owns land, however, he increases fertility by proper fertilization.”

“So you do not believe it possible for a white man to compete economically with these people, Farrel?”

“Would you, if you were a white farmer, care to compete with the Japanese farmers of this valley?  Would you care to live in a rough board shack, subsist largely on rice, labor from daylight to dark and force your wife and daughter to labor with you in the fields?  Would you care to live in a kennel and never read a book or take an interest in public affairs or thrill at a sunset or consider that you really ought to contribute a dollar toward starving childhood in Europe?  Would you?”

“You paint a sorry picture, Farrel.”  Parker was evasive.

“I paint what I see before me,” he answered doggedly.  “This—­in five years.  And if this be progress as we view progress—­if this be desirable industrial or agricultural evolution, then I’m out of tune with my world and my times, and as soon as I am certain of it I’ll blow my brains out.”

Parker chuckled at this outburst and Kay prodded him with her elbow—­a warning prod.  The conversation languished immediately.  Don Mike sat staring out upon the little green farms and the little brown men and women who toiled on them.

“Angry, Don Mike?” the girl asked presently.  He bent upon her a glance of infinite sadness.

“No, my dear girl, just feeling a little depressed.  It’s hard for a man who loves his country so well that he would gladly die a thousand dreadful deaths for it, to have to fight the disloyal thought that perhaps, after all, it isn’t really worth fighting for and dying for.  If we only had the courage and the foresight and the firmness of the Australians and New Zealanders!  Why, Kay, those sane people will not even permit an Indian prince—­a British subject, forsooth—­to enter their country except under bond and then for six months only.  When the six months have expired—­heraus mit em!  You couldn’t find a Jap in Australia, with a search warrant.  But do you hear any Japanese threats of war against Australia for this alleged insult to her national honor?  You do not.  They save that bunkum for pussy-footing, peace-loving, backward-looking, dollar-worshiping Americans.  As a nation we do not wish to be awakened from our complacency, and the old theory that a prophet is without honor in his own country is a true one.  So perhaps it would be well if we discuss something else—­luncheon, for instance.  Attention!  Silence in the ranks!  Here we are at the Hotel De Las Rosas.”