Randall laughed, though I saw his dark cheek flush.  “If Marigold had his way he would have us all in a barrack square.”

“Preferably in those fluid trenches of the present,” said I.  “And he wouldn’t be far wrong.”

My eyes rested on him somewhat stonily.  People have complained sometimes—­defaulters, say, in the old days—­that there can be a beastly, nasty look in them.

“What do you mean, Major?” he asked.

“Sergeant Marigold,” said I, “is a brave, patriotic Englishman who has given his country all he can spare from the necessary physical equipment to carry on existence; and it’s making him hang-dog miserable that he’s not allowed to give the rest to-morrow.  You must forgive his plain speaking,” I continued, gathering warmth as I went on, “but he can’t understand healthy young fellows like you not wanting to do the same.  And, for the matter of that, my dear Randall, neither do I. Why aren’t you serving your country?”

He started forward in his chair and threw out his arms, and his dark eyes flashed and a smile of conscious rectitude overspread his clear-cut features.

“My dear Major—­serving my country?  Why, I’m working night and day for it.  You don’t understand.”

“I’ve already told you I don’t.”

The boy was my guest.  I had not intended to hold a pistol to his head in one hand and dangle a suit of khaki before his eyes in the other.  I had been ill at ease concerning him for months, but I had proposed to regain his confidence in a tactful, fatherly way.  Instead of which I found myself regarding him with my beastly defaulter glare.  The blood sometimes flies to one’s head.

He condescended to explain.

“There are millions of what the Germans call ‘cannon fodder’ about.  But there are few intellects—­few men, shall I say?—­of genius, scarcely a poet.  And men like myself who can express—­ that’s the whole vital point—­who can express the higher philosophy of the Empire, and can point the way to its realisation are surely more valuable than the yokel or factory hand, who, as the sum-total of his capabilities, can be trained merely into a sort of shooting machine.  Just look at it, my dear Major, from a commonsense point of view—­” He forgot, the amazing young idiot, that he was talking not to a maiden aunt, but to a hard-bitten old soldier.  “What good would it serve to stick the comparatively rare man—­I say it in all modesty—­the comparatively rare man like myself in the trenches?  It would be foolish waste.  I assure you I’m putting all my talents at the disposal of the country.”  Seeing, I suppose, in my eyes, the maintained stoniness of non-conviction, he went on, “But, pay dear sir, be reasonable.” ...  Reasonable!  I nearly choked.  If I could have stood once more on my useless legs, I should have swung my left arm round and clouted him on the side of the head.  Reasonable indeed!  This well-fed, able-bodied, young Oxford prig to tell me, an honourable English officer and gentleman, to be reasonable, when the British Empire, in peril of its existence, was calling on all its manhood to defend it in arms!  I glared at him.  He continued:—­