ement while
classmates were leading divisions and even army corps to glorious
victory on the field of battle. At least, they would have been leading
them to glorious victory if there had been any action at all.

"Invade," insisted General Thario, becoming sufficiently stirred by his
fervor to lapse into sober incoherence. "Invade them before they invade
us. Aircraft out ... gentlemen's agreement ... quite understand ... well
... landingbarges ... Bering Sea ... strike south ... shuttle
transports ... drive left wing TransSiberian ... holding operation by
right and center ... abc ..."

No doubt it was a pity he was deprived of the opportunity to try these
tactics. I was one of the few who had not become a military theoretician
upon the outbreak of the war, but to my lay mind his plan sounded
feasible. Nevertheless, I was more interested in the possible contract
for food concentrates than in any strategy, no matter how brilliant. I'm
afraid I showed my boredom, for the general abruptly declared it was
time to go home.

_41._ I was a little dubious that after all the drinking and confidences
he would remember to send his son around, and to tell the truth, in the
calm morning, I felt I would not be too sorry if he didnt, for he had
not given me a very high opinion of that young man. What on earth
Consolidated Pemmican could do with a musician and a draftevader as
generalmanager--even if the title, as it must be, were purely
honorary--I couldnt imagine.

I had been long up, shaved and breakfasted and had attended to my
correspondence, before the telephone rang and George Thario announced
himself at my disposal.

He was what people call a handsome young man. That is, he was big and
burly and slow and his eyelashes were perceptible. His hair was short
and he wore no hat, but lounged about the room with his hands, thumbs
out, in his jacketpockets, looking at me vaguely through the curling
smoke from a bent pipe. I had never seen anyone look less like a
musician and I began to wonder if his father had been serious in so
describing him.

"I don't like it," he announced abruptly.

"Don't like what, Mr Thario?" I inquired.

"Joe to you," he corrected. "Mister from you to me belies our
prospective relationship. Just call me Joe."

"I thought your name was George."

"Baptismal--whim of the Old Man's. But it's a stuffy label--no
shortening it, you know, so the fellows all call me Joe. Chummier. Don't
like the idea of e