y would say, "you're spoiling us. I don't say we
don't like it and aren't grateful. We jolly well are. But we're
supposed to rough it--to lead the simple life--what? You're doing us
too well."

"Impossible!" Doggie would reply, filling up the speaker's glass.
"Don't I know what we owe to you fellows? In what other way can a
helpless, delicate crock like myself show his gratitude and in some
sort of little way serve his country?"

When the sympathetic and wine-filled guest would ask what was the
nature of his malady, he would tap his chest vaguely and reply:

"Constitutional. I've never been able to do things like other fellows.
The least thing bowls me out."

"Dam hard lines--especially just now."

"Yes, isn't it?" Doggie would answer. And once he found himself
adding, "I'm fed up with doing nothing."

Here can be noted a distinct stage in Doggie's development. He
realized the brutality of fact. When great German guns were yawning
open-mouthed at you, it was no use saying, "Take the nasty, horrid
things away, I don't like them." They wouldn't go unless you took
other big guns and fired at them. And more guns were required than
could be manned by the peculiarly constituted fellows who made up the
artillery of the original British Army. New fellows not at all
warlike, peaceful citizens who had never killed a cat in anger, were
being driven by patriotism and by conscience to man them. Against
Blood and Iron now supreme, the superior, aesthetic and artistic being
was of no avail. You might lament the fall in relative values of
collections of wall-papers and little china dogs, as much as you
liked; but you could not deny the fall; they had gone down with
something of an ignoble "wallop." Doggie began to set a high value on
guns and rifles and such-like deadly engines, and to inquire
petulantly why the Government were not providing them at greater
numbers and at greater speed. On his periodic visits to London he
wandered round by Trafalgar Square and Whitehall, to see for himself
how the recruiting was going on. At the Deanery he joined in ardent
discussions of the campaign in Flanders. On the walls of his peacock
and ivory room were maps stuck all over with little pins. When he told
the young officer that he was wearied of inaction, he spoke the truth.
He began to feel mightily aggrieved against Providence for keeping him
outside this tremendous national league of youth. He never questioned
his physical incapacity. I