portant," said
Westerling. "But after that come morale and the psychology of the
soldier." There he shrugged slightly, in indication of a resentment at
the handicap of human nature in his work. "The business of a soldier is
to risk death in the way he is told. The keener he is for his cause the
better. An ideal soldier is he who does not think for himself, but
observes every detail of training and will not stop until halted by
orders or a bullet. Therefore we want the army hot with desire. The
officers of a company cannot force their men forward. Without
insubordination or mutiny the men may stop from lack of interest after
only a very small percentage of loss."

"Lack of interest!" mused the premier. But Westerling, preoccupied with
the literal exposition of his subject, did not catch the flash of
passing satire before the premier, his features growing hard and
challenging, spoke in another strain: "Then it all goes back to the
public--to that enormous body of humanity out there!" He swung the
paper-knife around with outstretched arm toward the walls of the room.
"To public opinion--as does everything else in this age--to the people!
I have seen them pressing close, about to remove me from power, and I
have started a diversion which made them forget the object of their
displeasure. I have thought them won one day, and the next I realized
that they were going against me. Thank Heaven for the brevity of their
memory, or we leaders would be hung high by our own inconsistencies! He
who leads sees which way they will go, rushes to the head of the
procession, discovers them to themselves and turns a corner and they
follow, thinking that they are going straight to the point. But always
they are there, never older, never younger, never tiring--there, smiling
or scowling or forgetting all about you, only to have a sudden fierce
reminder overnight to surprise you--and our masters, yours and mine! For
no man can stand against them when they say no or yes."

"You know the keys to play on, though," remarked Westerling with a
complimentary smile. "No one knows quite so well."

"I ought to," replied the premier. "That was the purpose of the
semi-official _communique_ about Bodlapoo, which, of course, we can
repudiate later, if need be. I saw that the brilliant forced march of
our commander had excited popular enthusiasm. It does not matter if he
were in the wrong. Will race feeling rise to the pitch of war from this
touchstone wit