“But we shall!” remarked that single-minded paladin, Bobby Little.

“Of course we shall!  And what’s more, we are going to derive a national benefit out of this war which will in itself be worth the price of admission!”

“How?” asked several voices.

Wagstaffe looked round the table.  The Battalion were for the moment in Divisional Reserve, and consequently out of the trenches.  Some one had received a box of Coronas from home, and the mess president had achieved a bottle of port.  Hence the present symposium at Headquarters Mess.  Wagstaffe’s eyes twinkled.

“Will each officer present,” he said, “kindly name his pet aversion among his fellow-creatures?”

“A person or a type?” asked Mr. Waddell cautiously.

“A type.”

Colonel Kemp led off.

“Male ballet-dancers,” he said.

“Fat, shiny men,” said Bobby Little, “with walrus mustaches!”

“All conscientious objectors, passive resisters, pacifists, and other cranks!” continued the orthodox Waddell.

“All people who go on strike during war-time,” said the Adjutant.  There was an approving murmur—­then silence.

“Your contribution, M’Lachlan?” said Wagstaffe.

Angus, who had kept silence from shyness, suddenly blazed out:—­

“I think,” he said, “that the most contemptible people in the world to-day are those politicians and others who, in years gone by, systematically cried down anything in the shape of national defence or national inclination to personal service, because they saw there were no votes in such a programme; and who now”—­Angus’s passion rose to fever-heat,—­“stand up and endeavour to cultivate popular favour by reviling the Ministry and the Army for want of preparedness and initiative.  Such men do not deserve to live!  Oh, sirs—­”

But Angus’s peroration was lost in a storm of applause.

“You are adjudged to have hit the bull’s-eye, M’Lachlan,” said Colonel Kemp.  “But tell us, Wagstaffe, your exact object in compiling this horrible catalogue.”

“Certainly.  It is this.  Universal Service is a fait accompli at last, or is shortly going to be—­and without anything very much in the way of exemption either.  When it comes, just think of it!  All these delightful people whom we have been enumerating will have to toe the line at last.  For the first time in their little lives they will learn the meaning of discipline, and fresh air, and esprit de corps.  Isn’t that worth a war?  If the present scrap can only be prolonged for another year, our country will receive a tonic which will carry it on for another century.  Think of it!  Great Britain, populated by men who have actually been outside their own parish; men who know that the whole is greater than the part; men who are too wide awake to go on doing just what the Bandar-log tell them, and allow themselves to be used as stalking-horses for low-down political ramps!  When we, going round in bath-chairs and on crutches, see that sight—­well, I don’t think we shall regret our missing arms and legs quite so much, Colonel.  War is Hell, and all that; but there is one worse thing than a long war, and that is a long peace!”