“Quite so,” agreed Wagstaffe.  “Next, when the Voluntary System had done its damnedest—­in other words, when the willing horse had been worked to his last ounce—­we tried the Derby Scheme.  The manhood of the nation was divided into groups, and a fresh method of touting for troops was adopted.  Married shysters, knowing that at least twenty groups stood between them and a job of work, attested in comparatively large numbers.  The single shysters were less reckless—­so much less reckless, in fact, that compulsion began to materialise at last.”

“But only for single shysters,” said Bobby Little regretfully.

“Yes; and the married shyster rejoiced accordingly.  But the single shyster is a most subtle reptile.  On examination, it was found that the single members of this noble army of martyrs were all ‘starred,’ or ‘reserved’, or ’ear-marked’—­or whatever it is that they do to these careful fellows.  So the poor old married shyster, who had only attested to show his blooming patriotism and encourage the others, suddenly found himself confronted with the awful prospect of having to defend his country personally, instead of by letter to the halfpenny press.  Then the fat was fairly in the fire!  The married martyr—­”

“Come, come, old man!  Not all of them!” said Colonel Kemp.  “I have a married brother of my own, a solicitor of thirty-eight, who is simply clamouring for active service!”

“I know that, sir,” admitted Wagstaffe quickly.  “Thank God, these fellows are only a minority, and a freak minority at that; but freak minorities seem to get the monopoly of the limelight in our unhappy country.”

“The whole affair,” mused the Colonel, “can hardly be described as a frenzied rally round the Old Flag.  By God,” he broke out suddenly, “it fairly makes one’s blood boil!  When I think of the countless good fellows, married and single, but mainly married, who left all and followed the call of common decency and duty the moment the War broke out—­most of them now dead or crippled; and when I see this miserable handful of shirkers, holding up vital public business while the pros and cons of their wretched claims to exemption are considered—­well, I almost wish I had been born a Boche!”

“I don’t think you need apply for naturalisation papers yet, Colonel,” said Wagstaffe.  “The country is perfectly sound at heart over this question, and always was.  The present agitation, as I say, is being engineered by the more verminous section of our incomparable daily Press, for its own ends.  It makes our Allies lift their eyebrows a bit; but they are sensible people, and they realise that although we are a nation of lunatics, we usually deliver the goods in the end.  As for the Boche, poor fellow, the whole business makes him perfectly rabid.  Here he is, with all his splendid organisation and brutal efficiency, and he can’t even knock a dent into our undisciplined, back-chatting, fool-ridden, self-depreciating old country!  I, for one, sympathise with the Boche profoundly.  On paper, we don’t deserve to win!”