From: psandje@i-cable.com   
      
   Dug out the following from Burmese Days.  Does Ellis remind you of anyone we   
   know?   
      
      
      
   From Burmese Days Chapter 2   
      
   Westfield shrugged his thin shoulders philosophically. He had sat down at   
   the table and lighted a black, stinking Burma cheroot.   
      
   'Got to put up with it, I suppose,' he said. 'B-s of natives are getting   
   into all the Clubs nowadays. Even the Pegu Club, I'm told. Way this country'   
   s going, you know. We're about the last Club in Burma to hold out against   
   'em.'   
      
   'We are; and what's more, we're damn well going to go on holding out. I'll   
   die in the ditch before I'll see a nigger in here.' Ellis had produced a   
   stump of pencil. With the curious air of spite that some men can put into   
   their tiniest action, he re-pinned the notice on the board and pencilled a   
   tiny, neat 'B. F.' against Mr Macgregor's signature-'There, that's what I   
   think of his idea. I'll tell him so when he comes down. What do YOU say,   
   Flory?'   
      
   Flory had not spoken all this time. Though by nature anything but a silent   
   man, he seldom found much to say in Club conversations. He had sat down at   
   the table and was reading G. K. Chesterton's article in the London News, at   
   the same time caressing Flo's head with his left hand. Ellis, however, was   
   one of those people who constantly nag others to echo their own opinions. He   
   repeated his question, and Flory looked up, and their eyes met. The skin   
   round Ellis's nose suddenly turned so pale that it was almost grey. In him   
   it was a sign of anger. Without any prelude he burst into a stream of abuse   
   that would have been startling, if the others had not been used to hearing   
   something like it every morning.   
      
   'My God, I should have thought in a case like this, when it's a question of   
   keeping those black, stinking swine out of the only place where we can enjoy   
   ourselves, you'd have the decency to back me up. Even if that pot-bellied   
   greasy little sod of a nigger doctor IS your best pal. I don't care if you   
   choose to pal up with the scum of the bazaar. If it pleases you to go to   
   Veraswami's house and drink whisky with all his nigger pals, that's your   
   look-out. Do what you like outside the Club. But, by God, it's a different   
   matter when you talk of bringing niggers in here. I suppose you'd like   
   little Veraswami for a Club member, eh? Chipping into our conversation and   
   pawing everyone with his sweaty hands and breathing his filthy garlic breath   
   in our faces. By god, he'd go out with my boot behind him if ever I saw his   
   black snout inside that door. Greasy, pot-bellied little-!' etc.   
      
   This went on for several minutes. It was curiously impressive, because it   
   was so completely sincere. Ellis really did hate Orientals-hated them with a   
   bitter, restless loathing as of something evil or unclean. Living and   
   working, as the assistant of a timber firm must, in perpetual contact with   
   the Burmese, he had never grown used to the sight of a black face. Any hint   
   of friendly feeling towards an Oriental seemed to him a horrible perversity.   
   He was an intelligent man and an able servant of his firm, but he was one of   
   those Englishmen-common, unfortunately- who should never be allowed to set   
   foot in the East.   
      
      
   Paul Stables   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)