“It would be a war that would make all others in history a mere exchange of skirmishes.  Every able-bodied man in line—­automatics a hundred shots a minute—­guns a dozen shots a minute—­and aeroplanes and dirigibles!” said the manufacturer’s son.

“To the death, too!”

“And not for glory!  We of the 53d who live on the frontier will be fighting for our homes.”

“If we lose them we’ll never get them back.  Better die than be beaten!”

There was no humorist Hugo Mallin in this group; no nimble fancy to send heresy skating over thin ice; but there was Herbert Stransky, with deep-set eyes, slightly squinting inward, and a heavy jaw, an enormous man who was the best shot in the company when he cared to be.  He had listened in silence to the others, his rather thick but expressive lips curving with cynicism.  His only speech all the morning had been in the midst of the reception in the public square of the town when he said: 

“This home-coming doesn’t mean much to me.  Home?  Hell!  The hedgerows of the world are my home!”

He appeared older than his years, and hard and bitter, except when his eyes would light with a feverish sort of fire which shone now as he broke into a lull in the talk.

“Comrades,” he began.

“Let us hear from the socialist!” a Tory exclaimed.

“No, the anarchist!” shouted a socialist.

“There won’t be any war!” said Stransky, his voice gradually rising to the pitch of an agitator relishing the sensation of his own words.  “Patriotism is the played-out trick of the ruling classes to keep down the proletariat.  There won’t be any war!  Why?  Because there are too many enlightened men on both sides who do the world’s work.  We of the 53d are a provincial lot, but throughout our army there are thousands upon thousands like me.  They march, they drill, but when battle comes they will refuse to fight—­my comrades in heart, to whom the flag of this country means no more than that of any other country!”

“Hold on!  The flag is sacred!” cried the banker’s son.

“Yes, that will do!”

“Shut up!”

Other voices formed a chorus of angry protest.

“I knew you thought it; now I’ve caught you!” This from the sergeant, who had seen hard fighting against a savage foe in Africa and therefore was particularly bitter about the Bodlapoo affair.  The welt of a scar on his gaunt, fever-yellowed cheek turned a deeper red as he seized Stransky by the collar of the blouse.

Stransky raised his free hand as if to strike, but paused as he faced the company’s boyish captain, slender of figure, aristocratic of feature.  His indignation was as evident as the sergeant’s, but he was biting his lips to keep it under control.

“You heard what he said, sir?”

“The latter part—­enough!”

“It’s incitation to mutiny!  An example!”

“Yes, put him under arrest.”