“What’s the trouble?” inquired Major Kemp.

“Conscription, mostly. (Though why they should worry their little heads about it, I don’t know.  If K. wants it we’ll have it:  if not, we won’t; so that’s that!) Both sides are trying to drag the great British Public into the scrap by the back of the neck.  The Conscription crowd, with whom one would naturally side if they would play the game, seem to be out to unseat the Government as a preliminary.  They support their arguments by stating that the British Army on the Western front is reduced to a few platoons, and that they are allowed to fire one shell per day.  At least, that’s what I gathered.”

“What do the other side say?” inquired Kemp.

“Oh, theirs is a very simple line of argument.  They state, quite simply, that if the personal liberty of Britain’s workers—­that doesn’t mean you and me, as you might think:  we are the Overbearing Militarist Oligarchy:  a worker is a man who goes on strike,—­they say that if the personal liberty of these sacred perishers is interfered with by the Overbearing Militarist Oligarchy aforesaid, there will be a Revolution.  That’s all!  Oh, they’re a sweet lot, the British newspaper bosses!”

“But what,” inquired that earnest seeker after knowledge, Mr. Waddell, “is the general attitude of the country at large upon this grave question?”

Captain Wagstaffe chuckled.

“The dear old country at large,” he replied, “is its dear old self, as usual.  It is not worrying one jot about Conscription, or us, or anything like that.  The one topic of conversation at present is—­Charlie Chaplin.”

“Who is Charlie Chaplin?” inquired several voices.

Wagstaffe shook his head.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said.  “All I know is that you can’t go anywhere in London without running up against him.  He is It.  The mention of his name in a revue is greeted with thunders of applause.  At one place I went to, twenty young men came upon the stage at once, all got up as Charlie Chaplin.”

“But who is he?”

“That I can’t tell you.  I made several attempts to find out; but whenever I asked the question people simply stared at me in amazement.  I felt quite ashamed:  it was plain that I ought to have known.  I have a vague idea that he is some tremendous new boss whom the Government have appointed to make shells, or something.  Anyhow, the great British Nation is far too much engrossed with Charles to worry about a little thing like Conscription.  Still, I should like to know.  I feel I have been rather unpatriotic about it all.”

“I can tell you,” said Bobby Little.  “My servant is a great admirer of his.  He is the latest cinema star.  Falls off roofs, and gets run over by motors—­”

“And keeps the police at bay with a firehose,” added Wagstaffe.  “That’s him!  I know the type.  Thank you, Bobby!”

Major Kemp put down his glass with a gentle sigh, and rose to go.