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Fred M. White

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Beschreibung

In "The Seed of Empire," Fred M. White skillfully intertwines elements of adventure and romance set against the backdrop of the burgeoning British Empire. The narrative follows the gripping tale of its protagonist, navigating the treacherous waters of ambition, love, and imperial conquest. White employs a vivid literary style rich with descriptive imagery and period-appropriate dialogue, immersing readers in the complexities of a time where ambition often eclipsed morality. The novel engages with themes of colonialism, identity, and power dynamics, making it a significant contribution to the literature of its era, particularly during the late Victorian period when such themes were prevalent. Fred M. White, a prolific author of the early 20th century, hailed from an era that celebrated exploration and the expansion of empire. His own background in journalism and extensive travels likely informed the detailed settings and character depictions throughout his work. White's literary career was marked by a keen understanding of societal dynamics and relationships, enabling him to create stories that resonate with contemporary readers despite their historical context. Readers who appreciate rich narratives infused with adventure and an exploration of complex moral landscapes will find "The Seed of Empire" both captivating and thought-provoking. This novel not only entertains but also invites reflection on the often-unexamined effects of imperial pursuits and the human stories intertwined within them.

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Fred M. White

The Seed of Empire

Published by Good Press, 2022
EAN 4066338099884

Table of Contents

I - BLACK MONDAY
II - RAGGED AND TOUGH
III - A FRIEND IN NEED
IV - ALL FOR THE FLAG
V - SHOULDER TO SHOULDER
VI - THE THIN BROWN LINE
VII - "ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY"
VIII - "TIPPERARY"
IX - "THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM"
X - BOOT AND SADDLE
XI - THE SHADOW OF MONS
XII - FOG OF WAR
XIII - AFTER THE GUNS
XIV - BY TELEPHONE
XV - SAVED!
XVI - THE LONELY FARM
XVII - BACK WITH THE GUNS
XVIII - WOMEN'S WORK
XIX—SOMETHING ATTEMPTED
XX - IN CLOVER
XXI - GINGER'S ODYSSEY
XXII - THE NEW REPUBLIC
XXIII - IN THE VERNACULAR
XXIV. - NEWS FROM THE FRONT
XXV - PLAIN WORDS
XXVI - THE OLD SPIRIT
XXVII - LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
XXVIII - BACK TO THE FRONT
XXIX - STICKING IT
XXX - A MYSTERY
XXXI - TO THE RESCUE
XXXII - "SAVOY HOTEL"
XXXIII - A STAGGERING TASK
XXXIV - THE DEADLY GRIP
XXXV - A CHEERFUL TOMMY
XXVI - AT THE BASE
XXXVII - THE MUSKETEERS AT PLAY
XXXVIII - TOMMY'S LITTLE WAY
XXXIX - THE END OF THE GAME
XL - THE RED COTTAGE
XLI - INSIDE THE COTTAGE
XLII - THE HIDDEN BATTERY
XLII - HOMEWARD BOUND
XLIV - THE NEW LONDON
XLV - HOME, SWEET HOME
XV - THE DEEPER MEANING
XLVII - BACK TO THE FRONT
XLVIII - NEUVE CHAPELLE
XLIX - THE EARLY MORNING
L - THE GOOD YOUNG STUFF
LI - THE DAY'S WORK
LII - THE NEXT DAY
LIII - AND AFTER?
THE END

I - BLACK MONDAY

Table of Contents

THE SCRAP of paper lay on the counter of Europe, and the honour of more than one great Power trembled in the balance. And accordingly the greatest nation of them all would be compelled to act. Not that she had ever hesitated; not that she would swerve one inch from the path that she had pursued for nearly a thousand years; and perhaps because of this, from the north to the south, and from the east to the west, anxious hearts were beating and anxious eyes turned towards the storm centre that hung so black and threatening over Central Europe.

Would Germany respect her word? Would she hold by the compact she had entered into so many years ago? There were those who declared that she would, that the fear of Germany was no more than the exploitation of a certain school of journalism; but there were others who knew better than that, who knew for a certainty that Belgium was merely a pawn in the game of chess that Germany had played incessantly for the last 40 years. And so England waited.

The storm had gathered all too quickly. Seven days before, outside the charmed circle of European diplomacy, not a score of people had seen a sign of the gathering tempest. All England had been looking forward to its playtime, hundreds of thousands of honest toilers in the workshops and the offices were joyfully anticipating the holiday month. Eyes were turned eagerly towards the sea and the moorland, and now it seemed as if all that was forgotten. There had been trouble threatening on the Thursday and Friday, and then Black Monday had come with the most fateful Bank Holiday since holidays had first begun. And now to all practical purposes Germany had cynically flung her honour into the melting pot, and already had broken her solemn promise to Belgium, and England was at war with Germany, and the greatest conflict in the history of the world had begun.

It was a strange, weird holiday the Londoners were spending, a combination of holiday and funeral. It was as if some great nation was suddenly in the grip of mortal plague just at the moment when work had been flung aside with no heed for the morrow, a decorous mute festival with the shadow of some dire misfortune looming behind it.

So far there had been no outbreak of passion or emotion, no waving of flags, no outburst of patriotism from a million throats. For the thing had gone too deep for that. Early as it was, the nation was beginning to realise the stupendous task that lay before it. It seemed almost incredible that this quiet, sombre-eyed London was the same capital that had gone into the Boer War with noise and tumult, the wagging or flags, and the loud bray of brass and cymbals. For already deep down was the feeling that this ghastly business had been inevitable from the first, and that the future of the Empire was in peril.

Some such thoughts as these were passing through the mind of Harold Bentley as he walked through the streets of London on that Black Monday, without in the least knowing where he was going and what end he had in view. Here were crowds and crowds of people wandering about more or less aimlessly and discussing the great question with bated breath. Here and there somebody laughed, and the mirth seemed to be strangely out of place—almost an outrage. Here were some carelessly and light-heartedly making their way into places of amusement; some who did not understand, and probably never would understand, the full weight of the blow that had fallen. Here and there people were gathered in groups, and at the foot of the Nelson column a Socialist orator was raving and ranting to a detached and uninterested audience, who listened to his poisonous treason with a certain stolid apathy. It was one of those amazing sights only to be seen in London; it would be impossible in any other European capital. And that, too, under the very shadow of the Englishman who did as much as or more than any son of the Empire to make Britain what she is to-day.

Bentley paused almost involuntarily. He had nothing in his pocket; he had no object in life for the moment, except to kill the time, and he paused rather cynically to listen to the frothy rubbish that came so glibly from the man's lips. The speaker was a big man, heavy and red of face, and he spoke with the hoarseness which is always suggestive of gin and fog and the beery dissipation of the common pothouse. He was appealing for some cause, too, for there was a collecting box at his feet, and now and again some good-natured passer-by dropped a coin into it.

But it was only for a moment that Bentley listened with a smile upon his lips. Then he edged a little closer to the speaker, and his fists clenched instinctively. He was standing shoulder to shoulder now with the crowd, listening without betraying the slightest emotion, and just for a moment he felt a certain contempt for his fellow-countrymen. He did not quite realise that their attitude was one of benevolent toleration, due to the Englishman's instinctive love of fair play and his desire to give the meanest outcast a chance.

"I tell yer it's all in our hands," the speaker vociferated. "It's all in the hands of the working man. If you chaps like to put yer foot down you can stop this war now. The working man of Europe could stop anything. Do you suppose those people in the House of Commons and at Whitehall care a hang for Belgium? D'you suppose they'd lose a moment's sleep, if Germany annexed Belgium to-morrow? Not they, my lads. Because why? Because this is a war got up by capitalists to put money in their pockets. It means millions and millions dragged out of your pockets in the way of taxation, and it will be all spent on the employers of labour, who'll be living on the fat of the land, whilst you chaps can hardly get bread, to say nothing of beer."

"And you wouldn't like that, guv'nor," a voice from the crowds jeered. "Is that wot you're collectin' for?"

"Ah, you can laugh," the speaker went on. "But who's going to do the fighting? Who's going to lay down their lives on the blood-stained fields of Europe? Why, the working man. When he finds himself without food and wages he'll take the shilling in sheer despair and go and fight for what he calls his country, whilst the nobs will stay at home with their champagne, wine, and their golf and their shooting. When I see the gentlemen, as they call themselves, coming forward to fight then I'll say no more about it. But just let me know when you catch 'em at it. Why, there's one of 'em there now—that chap with the blue suit as is sneering at me and you and every other honest son of toil. There he is, him in the straw hat."

It seemed to Harold that every eye was turned upon him in an instant. For the first time he was conscious of the hot anger that filled him, conscious of the tingling in his finger-tips, and a mad desire to jump forward and dash his fist into that red, drink-sodden face, and take the consequences. Where were the police, that they permitted an outrage like this to exist at the very base of Nelson's Column? And Harold was conscious, too, of the little knot of powerful-looking loafers—friends, no doubt, of the speaker, and potential shareholders in the collecting box at the orator's feet.

"Are you speaking of me?" Harold asked.

"Well, what if I am?" the orator demanded. "Since you put it to me like that, I am."

"It's a lie," Harold said hotly. "It's as much of a lie as it is for you to call yourself a working man. You've never done a day's work in your life."

"That's the style, Mr. Bentley," a hoarse voice said. "Rub it into the swine. I'll back yer up."

II - RAGGED AND TOUGH

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Harold turned a surprised glance on the speaker. He saw a little man, short and squarely built; a man with fiery red hair, and whose impudent face was deeply marked with orange freckles. His clothes were dingy and dilapidated, his toes were working through his broken boots, and to all appearance fortune had not smiled his way of late. But the impudent blue of his eyes and the audacious swaggering smile on his lips seemed to have been born there and ready to defy every misfortune that came his way. He might have been any age between 19 and 25, but in the case of the typical pariah of the London streets it is always difficult to tell. This was not the question that Harold was asking himself—he was wondering how this ragged and tough specimen of humanity knew him so well by name.

"I think I can manage all right, thank you," he said coldly.

"Don't you be put down, Mr. Bentley. Don't yer let 'im 'ave all 'is own way, I'll back yer up. There's a bloke astandin' be'ind the Socialist, that cove with the long nose. An' I don't mind tellin' yer as I'm a-dyin' ter punch 'im."

Harold edged the speaker on one side. By this time some of the crowd, bent on mischief, were egging him on. The orator had ceased speaking, conscious, perhaps, that he was getting the better of the argument, for he turned sneeringly to Bentley, and demanded to know if he had any more to say.

"Only this," Harold cried hotly, "that you are no working man. Work is a thing that loafers of your class don't believe in. In any other country but this you would be pulled off that pedestal and drowned in the nearest fountain. Yes, I've a great mind to save the police the trouble of hanging you."

The crowd tittered and then broke into a hoarse laugh. The Socialist's face turned a deeper red.

"And what about yourself?" he asked. "You're one of the nobs, you are, you of the nuts. Pap-fed at a public school, and then swaggering at Oxford College. Oh, I know your sort. Catch you doing anything for your country! You've enlisted, of course? Did it this morning, may be."

Bentley said nothing for a moment. For it was a question he had not anticipated. He wanted to explain; he had an insane desire to tell the now interested spectators the reason why he had passed one recruiting office after another without a glance to the right or left. But the thing was impossible. He could not stand up there before that little knot of fellow-creatures and explain to them that, though the speaker's guess as to the public school was correct, he was merely a city clerk more or less fortunate in the possession of 30s a week, and with a mother and sister entirely dependent upon him. No doubt, later on, a grateful country would do something for those who had given up everything to follow the flag, but meanwhile the call of those nearest and dearest to him drowned the trumpet call of patriotism and country. And it would have been so easy to lie to the red-faced spouter, and thus escape the jeers and sneers of those around him.

"No," he said, "I have not enlisted. It is no business of yours, but I merely tell you the truth. My father died for his country, and if circumstances—"

He broke off abruptly and bit his lip. What a fool he was to lose his temper like this, how childish to betray these sacred confidences to callous strangers who were merely seeking a few minutes cheap recreation! He would have turned away and edged through the crowd had not the next words of the speaker arrested him. He pulled up quivering in every nerve.

"There what did I tell you? He ain't going to fight, not he. Ain't got pluck enough. Hiding himself behind a woman's petticoats. Now, look here, young fellow, I've had enough of you; you just hop off, else I'll come down and make you."

The little man with the red hair by Harold's side chuckled joyfully. The light of battle gleamed in his eyes.

"E's fairly arskin' for it, Mr. Bently," he whispered, "Now, don't yer go an' fly in the fice o' Providence. Don't yer lose a charnce as is fairly stickin' aht at yer. You tike 'im on, and I'll go for the melancholy bloke with the long nose. Lor' bless yer, sir, many the time as I've stood a-watchin' yer in the gymnasium of the old school when you've 'ed the gloves on with some o' the other gents. Why, that left punch o' yourn't ud 'ave made a champion of yer if you 'adn't been one of the toffs with pots o' money. I don't suppose you remember me, sir, but at one time I was boot-boy in Mr. Seymour's 'ouse when you was at Rugby. Nime of Ginger Smiff."

In a hazy way Bentley was beginning to remember. But there was little time for questions now, for the red-faced bully, feeling more sure of his ground, was advancing threateningly to the attack. Already Harold could feel the man's hot breath on his face; he was conscious of the thrust-out jaw and the cruel anger in the blurred grey eyes of his opponent. No doubt the assailant had calculated upon the moral support at least of the crowd, for he lunged out viciously, his one desire to hurt and maim his opponent before the arrival of the police.

Harold was cool enough now. The joy of the fight was on him. Here was the chance to let himself go, to relieve his pent-up feelings, and strike a blow for his country, even if only an oblique one. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the little man with ginger hair wriggling his way through the crowd until he was face to face with the long-nosed Socialist, who promptly made a dash for him with a stick. Bentley was conscious of the fact that Ginger Smith's opponent was suddenly brought up all standing with a vicious body blow, and then he went down, to rise no more, before a vigorous left on the point of the jaw. And then Harold saw his chance, too.

It was a cruelly uneven contest from the very first, for the fat and flabby Socialist was no kind of a match for two-and-twenty years of perfect condition and muscular manhood trained fine as a star and rendered hard as nails by outdoor exercise. In the language of the ring, Harold was all over his opponent; it was mere child's play to him, and his one regret lay in the fact that it was over all too soon. The man collapsed, a blubbering heap at his feet, yelling and cursing and calling for the police. From somewhere in the distance a whistle blew, and it was borne in upon Harold that this generous impulse of his was likely to get him into trouble. He snatched the money-box and crushed it in fragments under his feet. Then he scooped up the contents and scattered them amongst the crowd. By this time Ginger Smith had completed his work and was back by Harold's side.

"Come on, sir," he panted. "Let's get out of this. It's been a bit of a beano so far, but yer don't want ter be run in and fined five pahnds fer spilin' a swine like 'im. Come on, sir, 'ere's the bloomin' coppers a-comin'."

Ginger burst his way through the crowd and darted across the square in the direction of Whitehall. Harold was alive to the peril now, and followed rapidly. It would never do for him to find himself figuring before magistrates over this wretched business. His employer was a cold, austere man, a money-grubber, and selfish bachelor, and an worshipper of the conventions, who would have discharged him without compunction had anything of this come to his ears. And Harold knew only too well how hard it was to earn the bread of life in a city office.

He saw Ginger dart and twist under a policeman's arm and vanish down an entry. Then he was conscious of a motor car pulling up by him alongside the pavement.

"Well, this is a nice game, Harold," a cheery voice said. "I was just in time to see the end of it. Jump in, old chap—I suppose you don't want to find yourself in Bow-street. And now, where have you been hiding all this long time?"

III - A FRIEND IN NEED

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With a deep sigh of relief, Harold dropped back against the luxurious cushions of the car, only too thankful to escape from the folly of his recent adventure. It was some little time before he spoke, not indeed until the car paused before a block of flats in Campden Hill, and the rescuer led the way up the stairs to the first floor. Here he put his latchkey in the lock, and a few minutes later Harold was seated in a deep armchair, with a choice Turkish cigarette between his lips. It was the first time he had smoked for weeks.

"Now, what on earth do you mean by it?" his friend demanded. "What excuse have you got to make for turning your back on your friends in this fashion? I suppose you know it's two years since we last met? Now explain yourself."

"Oh, I daresay you'll think me very ungrateful, Ronnie," Harold said. "But try to put yourself in my place, old man. When the poor old governor was killed in that little affair on the Indian frontier we were under the impression that we were going to be fairly well off. As a matter of fact, there wasn't a penny left. My father had muddled everything away in all sorts of mad speculations. Of course, my notion of going to Oxford was knocked on the head, and instead I had to turn to and get enough money to keep my mother and sister. And weary work it's been, too. You see, my mother is not capable of doing anything but manage a house, though she can do that to perfection. My sister is in a fair way to becoming a successful artist, but meanwhile she has to be kept, and I can assure you that 30s a week doesn't go very far."

Ronald Kemp was duly sympathetic. He had never known what it was to lack anything. He had a fine place of his own out Harrow way, where he spent a good deal of time with his sister and her elderly companion, and he kept up his luxurious flat in London as well. It was a popular fiction that he took an active part in the great firm of which his father had been the head, but it was seldom indeed that the handsome presence and cheery laugh of Ronnie Kemp were ever seen and heard in the city of London. For the rest, he was a clean-limbed, clean-lived, and healthy type of young England, as moulded by a public school, than which the whole world can present no finer type of high-minded and wholesome humanity. Furthermore, he was generous and large-hearted and loyal to his friends, and there was a frown on his face as he listened to Bentley's story.

"Well, at any rate, you might have come to see me," he protested. "You know jolly well that what is mine is yours. It makes me downright mad to think that the best pal I ever had at school should be starving on a few shillings a week, whilst I'm literally flinging the stuff about. My dear old chap, just try and remember that we shared the same study for three years, and never had a misword the whole time. Here, fill your cigarette case out of that box. And, how much do you want? Will you have a couple of hundred to go on with?"

"That's just like you, Ronnie," Bentley said unsteadily. "Always ready to do a kind act. But it won't do, it won't indeed. Don't you see I can't take it? Would you take it if you were in my place? If it wasn't for the sake of the mater and my sister, I wouldn't care a scrap. I'd enlist like a shot. But I can't, old man, I can't. I shall have to go about with everybody turning the cold shoulder on me; I shall have the girls in the omnibuses handing the white feather to me. It's infernally hard, old son, but I shall have to put up with it. I hear already that lots of men in the city have offered men in my position a full salary if they join the colours. But not my old blackguard, selfish old bachelor. I put it to him on Saturday, and he told me I could go if I liked, but if I thought he was going to do anything for the mater and Nettie I was jolly well mistaken. Upon my word, I am worried about the thing until I'm unable to sleep even. But what's to be done?"

Kemp nodded sympathetically. He was evidently turning over some project in his mind.

"You want to enlist, of course?" he said.

"My dear chap, I'm aching to do something. I suppose I've met a score of the old lot since Saturday, and there isn't one of 'em who isn't doing something. And you?"

"Oh, I'm all right," Kemp explained. "I joined the Hon. Company of Musketeers as soon as I left school. On and off I've been three years in the corps. We're all old O.T.C.'s, as you know, and I don't suppose there's one of us who can't show a Certificate A. With any luck, we shall be at the front in a month. And you see, without boasting, we are to all practical purposes regulars. We're full up now, but I was down at headquarters this morning, and I heard that they were well on towards a second battalion already. Sort of 'let 'em all come,' arrangement: 'Duke's son, cook's son, son of a millionaire.' We're going to have the cream of London, my boy—the chaps who come first without waiting for the call. I tell you we shall make up a brigade to be proud of. And, what's more, I'll bet you a sovereign we're full by Wednesday morning. Ah, well, I know it's the fashion to laugh at us and call us nuts and make fun of our socks, and accuse us of hanging about all those dear little flappers, but the stuff's there, my boy, it's there all right. Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton, and the freedom of Europe is going to be won by the flanneled fools and muddied oafs, and good old Rudyard Kipling will be the first man to acknowledge it when the time comes. We're going together side by side, the navvy and the nut and the Gaiety boy and the miner all side by side, and we're going to win out with the old flag. We're going to show the country what it never dreamt of; I can feel it in my bones. But what a beastly selfish chap I must be to talk like this to you. But I've done it with a purpose. You've got to put your beastly pride in your pocket. It isn't the time to think of that sort of thing. You've got to come with me into the trenches; you've got to lie down side by side with Tommy from Whitechapel and Bill from Shoreditch; and you've got to forget that there's any difference between us, because, as Kipling says, 'The Colonel's lady and Biddy O'Grady are sisters under their skins.' And we're brothers under our coats, though one is cut in Bond-street and the other is a reach-me-down sold for a tanner in Petticoat-lane. Now, I only ask you one question—Are you coming with me, or are you not?"

"If I could," Bentley groaned. "Oh, Lord, if I could."

"Well, you can," Kemp cried. "It's as easy as kiss your hand. Now, listen. This is all arranged by Providence. You know that my sister lives in that big place of mine until I get married or make an ass of myself in some other way, and that she has a kind of companion-housekeeper and chaperon who looks after her. Now, Miss Hochkess wants to go and join her sister, who runs a big school in Eastbourne, and needs her very badly to assist there. For nearly a year Miss Hochkess has stayed on to oblige us, merely because we can't find anybody good enough to take her place. Your mother would be ideal. She's a lady, and I know how capable she is—I ought to, considering the times I've stayed at your place. It's not a difficult post to fill. Dorothy used to be very fond of your mother, and she and your sister were great pals till you went and hid yourselves in that mysterious fashion. And it's a two hundred-a-year job. And I'm dashed glad I've got that bit out. Now, what do you say? Mind you, I should have made the same proposition if there'd been no war."

It was some time before Bentley could find his voice. Then he put out his hand and murmured something under his breath.

"So that's settled," Kemp cried. "Hurrah for the old flag, and here's to the King, God bless him!"

IV - ALL FOR THE FLAG

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Kemp bustled about the room with the matter-of-fact air of one who has settled some commonplace piece of business, but he was careful not to look at Bentley just then. Harold was grateful enough, but he was feeling just a little unmanned. He was disposed to blame himself for not having looked up some of these good pals of his before; he could see now that it had been foolish pride on his part; at the same time, he had not the slightest intention of accepting any of Kemp's money, but this new offer was a different matter altogether.

"I don't know how to thank you," he said.

"I'm jolly glad to hear it," Kemp laughed. "You'd have done just as much for me. Now, look here—I'm no end anxious to get you into our first battalion. Of course there's no chance at present for either of us to get a commission, but there are certain to be a few vacancies in the ranks, seeing that we are dead sure of being at the front in a month's time. A goodish few chaps who are all right for ornamental work won't pass the doctor now, and that's where you come in. Now, sit down and scribble a letter to your mother, and say you won't be back till some time to-morrow. Say I'm giving you a shakedown for to-night, and that you have got some good news for her. Then we'll pop down to the depot early to-morrow morning and clinch this business."

Kemp called down the stairs to the porter and asked if he had a messenger in, one of the class of men who hang about big blocks of flats in want of a job; Bentley looking up from his letter presently saw his old acquaintance Ginger Smith standing in the doorway. There was a grin on his face, and he appeared to be perfectly at home.

"I knowed you was all right, sir," he said. "I see you 'op it inter Mr. Kemp's car, so I jest jumps on the back, an' 'ere we are! I runs lots of errands for Mr. Kemp, and 'e's werry kind to me, 'e is. I'd do anything for 'im, I would."

"Except work," Kemp smiled. "Ginger is quite a handy man, but work frightens him. He thinks nothing of walking ten miles from here to a golf club and back and lugging half a ton of clubs round a long course, but that's because he doesn't think it's work. I've offered to take him into my employ, but it's no use. He'll never be good for anything."

"Oh, yes, 'e would," Ginger grinned. "Because 'e's got 'is charnce. I never told you, sir, did I, as my father were a Tommy? Served seventeen year, 'e did, an' died in the Boer War, and 'e wasn't shot in the back, neither. I was only a bit of a nipper in them dyes, an' mostly I've storved on an' off ever since, but 'ere in a little bag wot I carries rahnt me neck I've got three little silver things as belonged to the ole man wot 'is country give 'im, an' I never pawned none of 'em yet, though many a dye I've known wot it is ter go wifout a mouthful o' grub, An' now I'm goin' ter arsk you, sir, ter give me one more charnce. You may call me a loafer an' a wister as is good for nothin' except sellin' pipers an' 'anging abaht a golf club, but all the sime I believe as I've got the right stuff in me ter make a soldier. An' if you would be so kind as ter get me in that there regiment o' your'n then I'll never forget it. An' I'll do more'n that. I've bin caddyin' this mornin'. An' when I come in an' drawed my money, the caddie master 'e says ter me:—'Don't let me see any o' you chaps 'ere agin as is between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five.' O' course, I knowed wot 'e meant, an' I say's, 'Wot o, ole pimple fice. It's me for the flag to strike a blow for me King an' to keep a roof over the head o' you an' yer ole missus.' Then we shakes 'ands, an' parts like two ole pals. An' I ain't goin' back no more. An' I'll tell yer wot, sir. I knows as you wants recruits for that second battalion o' your'n, and if you'll 'elp me to shove meself in khaki and fight shoulder to shoulder with two gentlemen like you, then it'll be a real proud moment for me an' the other chaps."

"Regular orator, isn't he?" Kemp laughed. "What other chaps are you talking about?"

"Nearly all the rest o' the caddies. We come back together this evenin', over 70 of us, an' we all made up our mind as we was out for the flag. But we didn't jest know wot ter do till I 'as wot yer calls a Hinspiration, an' I says, 'Leave it ter me,' I says. An' they did. An' if yer don't mind, sir, I'm comin' rahnd ter yer 'eadquarters ter-morrow mornin', an' I'm goin' ter bring abaht eighty more wif me. We ain't much ter look at, but you feed us up an' treat us like men, an' you'll find as 'wot we are men. I dare say you'll think as I'm doin' a lot o' gas wif me mawth—"

"Here, shake hands, Ginger," Kemp cried. "My good fellow, I'm delighted to hear you talk like this. It's the good old British spirit bred in the stock that Drake and Nelson and Wellington came from, and it shows that the old country is still sound to the core. I'll go out of my way to get you into our first battalion, and I don't mind telling you that you will be the first working man who ever belonged to it. It may sound rather snobbish to talk like that just now, but still—"

Ginger held his head high as he took Bentley's note and swaggered from the room. In some subtle way his rags seemed to have taken on a certain dignity, his powerful shoulders were drawn back, and there was a keen look in his eye.

"Here, just half a moment!" Kemp cried. "I'll tell you what. There's plenty of room here, and if you like to bring those pals of yours round here to breakfast to-morrow morning I'll be proud to welcome you as my guests and shake hands with you. Now then, off you go."

Ginger clattered importantly down the stairs. Through the open windows came the cries of the newsboys yelling the very latest sensation. Belgium had already been invaded, and there was nothing for it now but to see this thing through.

"I haven't grasped it yet," Bentley said. "It only seems a few hours since I was wondering how I was going to spend my bank Holiday. You can't get much fun on a solitary half-crown, and my idea was to take a long country walk. And here we are with the biggest job in history before us, and we are actually looking forward with pleasure to-morrow morning to breakfasting with a choice assortment of golf caddies. Now, what would you have said if anybody had told you that a week ago?"

"I don't know," Kemp confessed. "Advise him to go and see a doctor, probably. And yet, by Gad, it's true! I don't mind telling you that I shall be downright proud to march those chaps into our quadrangle to-morrow morning. And, mind you, I don't underrate the seriousness of this job. We can see now that the Kaiser and his gang have been getting ready for this business for over thirty years, and many a good fellow will be down and out before we are in sight of Berlin. The question is, shall we be in time to save Paris? Personally, I doubt it. Those brutes will be through Belgium almost before we can stir. In all these years Lord Roberts has been no more than a voice crying in the wilderness. Well, I suppose we shall muddle through somehow. We always have, and we always play the game and give the other fellow the benefit of the doubt till the last moment. And we've paid for our generosity in blood and tears. Half an hour ago I was going to suggest that we cheered ourselves with an hour or so at a music hall. But in some funny way I seem to have grown about two years older. I seem to have lost my taste for all sorts of pleasure, even my cigarettes don't smoke quite so pleasantly. How could they, with those words ringing in one's ears?"

For down below strident voices of the newsboys were pitched in another and more ominous key.

"Germans across the frontier. Heavy fighting in Belgium. Dreadful slaughter, Official."

V - SHOULDER TO SHOULDER

Table of Contents

With the morrow and the morning's papers the full meaning of that vile treachery was apparent to the most credulous Englishman who had ever been fooled by the shallow pretence of German friendship. Certain German writers had been preaching the doctrine of German world supremacy for years, but the Kaiser had always posed as the apostle of peace. Every child knew now what the whole thing meant. The Kaiser's pose was assumed in order to dull fools and visionaries into a false sense of security. And he had done his work well!

At the same time, it was beyond question that the participation of England in the strife had come as a rude shock to the conspirators in Potsdam. To a certain extent they had been visionary, too, dreamers too prone to believe what their spies had told them: England would never come in; she would never abandon her slothful attitude; even if she did, her pampered, over-civilised population would never permit her to strike a blow; and, again, if she did there would be civil war in Ireland, India would rise like one man, and South Africa would pass away from beneath the flag.

But all these hopes were destined to be dashed to the ground. England had no army, it is true, except what Germany contemptuously regarded as a handful of paid mercenaries which would never be augmented by a real fighting force.

But England knew different. It was easy for Germany, with her population in the grip of the military party, to drag her children into the firing line whether they liked it or not, and oblige them to make a virtue of necessity. But Germany knew little of the real sporting spirit that brought recruits by the hundred thousand even before they had been called. At that moment business was forgotten; nobody heeded the Stock Exchange and the City, for there were more vital interests at stake than mere money. The streets looked different, there was a different spirit in the air, and with it all a quiet assurance that everything would be well when the time came. The very newspapers were transformed. No longer was any heed taken of the trivialities of life. For the Germans were over the Belgian frontier, and already the mighty fighting machine had encountered its first check.

Every line of this was eagerly absorbed by Kemp and Bentley as they sat waiting for Ginger Smith and his friends.

"It was happy chance that brought us together last night," Bentley said. "I don't know what I should have done if I had not met you. Fancy jogging along to the office this morning by the tube, and sitting at a desk all day adding up columns of figures! The mere thought of it makes me shudder. I should have had to go, and I should have been miserable. And now everything is different."

"What are you going to do about it?" Kemp asked.

"Oh, I'm not going back if that's what you mean. I'll ring up my old patriot on the telephone presently and tell him he can look out for another prisoner. I hope within an hour or two to be wearing the uniform of the Musketeers."

Anything Kemp would have said in reply was cut short by the intrusion of the hall porter. He seemed to be struggling between annoyance and amusement.

"Beg your pardon, sir," he said. "But that there Ginger Smith's jest turned up with about a hundred wot 'e calls recruits. 'E says as you've arsked them all ter breakfast. I should jest 'ave sent them off, only down in the 'all a lot o' waiters from Harrod's is turned up an' a van full of provisions. Of course, sir, you know your own business best, an' if so be as Ginger's tellin' the truth, why, then, sir, I suppose I'd better tell that lot as they can come upstairs. If not, it seems ter me I'd better send for the police."

"Oh, that's all right," Kemp agreed.

"Might 'ave come off a racecourse. Class o' stuff wot you see 'anging around the National Sporting Club when there's a big fight on. If I was you, sir, I'd put all them nick-nacks away."

"I'm ashamed of you," Kemp said solemnly. "Do you know you're libelling sons of the Empire? Do you know that all social distinctions have been swept away, and that to-day we are all brothers? My good man, those chaps are recruits. You won't know them in a fortnight. Show 'em up. And tell those people from Harrod's to get the breakfast ready in the dining-room as soon as possible. By Jove, this is something like life, isn't it? And only last week I couldn't make up my mind which was the least boring way of spending August."

They came shuffling noisily up the stairs, a ragged, unwashed and dilapidated crowd, following more or less shyly on Ginger's heels. It was quite evident that some of them at least regarded the whole thing as a hoax on Ginger's part. But Ginger led the way with a cheery grin on his pleasant face, his natural audacity not in the least abashed by his surroundings. His greasy cap was cocked over his left eye, and with his right eye he winked familiarly at his host.

"'Ere yer are, sir," he said. "Abaht seventy of us altogether. An' a nice job I 'ad ter get 'em 'ere. It's lucky for me as they all 'ad a good dye yesterday, an' so they was travellin' dahn ter Richmond by the nine-five instead o' walkin' as usual. So I cops the 'ole lot. Now, chaps, was Ginger a liar or did 'e tell yer the truth?"