So, in due time, Mr. Spugg’s chauffeur, Henry, went overseas.  He was reported first as in England.  Next he was right at the front, at the very firing itself.  We knew then,—­everybody in the club knew that Mr. Spugg’s chauffeur might be killed at any moment.  But great as the strain must have been, Spugg went up and down to his office and in and out of the club without a tremor.  The situation gave him a new importance in our eyes, something tense.

“This seems to be a terrific business,” I said to him one day at lunch, “this new German drive.”

“My chauffeur,” said Mr. Spugg, “was right in the middle of it.”

“He was, eh?”

“Yes,” he continued, “one shell burst in the air so near him it almost broke his wings.”

Mr. Spugg told this with no false boasting or bravado, eating his celery as he spoke of it.  Here was a man who had nearly had his chauffeur’s wings blown off and yet he never moved a muscle.  I began to realize the kind of resolute stuff that the man was made of.

A few days later bad news came to the club.

“Have you heard the bad news about Spugg?” someone asked.

“No, what?”

“His chauffeur’s been gassed.”

“How is he taking it?”

“Fine.  He’s sending off his gardener to take the chauffeur’s place.”

So that was Mr. Spugg’s answer to the Germans.

We lunched together that day.

“Yes,” he said, “Henry’s gassed.  How it happened I don’t know.  He must have come down out of the air.  I told him I wanted him in the air.  But let it pass.  It’s done now.”

“And you’re sending your gardener?”

“I am,” said Spugg.  “He’s gone already.  I called him in from the garden yesterday.  I said, ’William, Henry’s been gassed.  Our first duty is to keep up our man power at the front.  You must leave to-night.’”

“What are you putting William into?” I asked

“Infantry.  He’ll do best in the trenches,—­digs well and is a very fair shot.  Anyway I want him to see all the fighting that’s going.  If the Germans want give and take in this business they can have it.  They’ll soon see who can stand it best.  I told William when he left.  I said, ’William, we’ve got to show these fellows that man for man we’re a match for them.’  That’s the way I look at it, man for man.”

I watched Mr. Spugg’s massive face as he went on with his meal.  Not a nerve of it moved.  If he felt any fear, at least he showed no trace of it.

After that I got war news from him at intervals, in little scraps, as I happened to meet him.  “The war looks bad,” I said to him one day as I chanced upon him getting into his motor.  “This submarine business is pretty serious.”

“It is,” he said, “William was torpedoed yesterday.”

Then he got into his car and drove away, as quietly as if nothing had happened.

A little later that day I heard him talking about it in the club.  “Yes,” he was saying, “a submarine.  It torpedoed William,—­my gardener.  I have both a chauffeur and a gardener at the war.  William was picked up on a raft.  He’s in pretty bad shape.  My son Alfred had a cable from him that he’s coming home.  We’ve both telegraphed him to stick it out.”