ke gooseberries out here." Number Two's eyes
would abruptly come to earth again and focus themselves on the man in
front. "I want you to think," Jimmy would go on quietly, "of the
dirty, lousy crowd of German waiters you remember at home in the days
before the war. Do you remember their greasy-looking clothes, and
their greasy-looking faces, and the way you used to treat 'em as the
scum of the world? Would you have one of them, MacNab, cut the hands
off your kid; would you, me bucko?"

"I would not, sargint." MacNab's slow brain was working; his eyes were
beginning to glint.

"Then come out here." Jimmy's voice rose to a shout. "Come out and
move. Do you see that sack? do you see that white disc? Run at it,
you blighter; run, snarl, spit. That's the German who has killed your
kid. The white paper is his heart; run, man, run. Stab him, kill him;
stuff your bayonet in him, and scream with rage."

The bewildered MacNab, on the conclusion of this tirade, would amble up
to the sack, push his gun feebly in its direction, completely miss
it--and look sheepishly into space.

"Mother of heaven! The first competitor in Nuts and May. Did you hear
me tell you to hit the sack, MacNab? For God's sake, man, stick your
bayonet in; hit it with your butt; kick it; tear it in pieces with your
teeth; worry it; do anything--but don't stand there looking like a
Scotchman on Sunday. The dam thing's laughing at you."

And so at last MacNab would begin. Bits of sacking would fly in all
directions, streams of straw and sawdust would exude. He's kicked it
twice, and hit it an appalling welt with the butt of his gun. The
sweat pours from his face; but his eyes are gleaming, as he stops at
last from sheer exhaustion.

"Splendid, MacNab; you're a credit to Glasgow, me boy. Are you
beginning to feel what it's like to stick your point into something,
even though it's only a sack?"

But MacNab is already more than half ashamed of his little outburst; he
is unable to understand what made him see red--and somewhat
uncomfortably he returns to his place in the squad. Only, if you look
at Jimmy, you will see the glint of a smile in his eyes: the squad is
new--the beginning has not been bad. He knows what made MacNab see
red; by the time he has finished with him, the pride of Glasgow will
never see anything else. . . .

And yet what do they know of seeing red, these diners of London? It is
just as well, I grant, that they s