The prevailing topic in the smoking-room upstairs was the inability of the War Office to deal with the flood of recruits that was pouring in, and its hostility to any such volunteering as Mr. Britling had in mind.  Quite a number of members wanted to volunteer; there was much talk of their fitness; “I’m fifty-four,” said one, “and I could do my twenty-five miles in marching kit far better than half those boys of nineteen.”  Another was thirty-eight.  “I must hold the business together,” he said; “but why anyhow shouldn’t I learn to shoot and use a bayonet?” The personal pique of the rejected lent force to their criticisms of the recruiting and general organisation.  “The War Office has one incurable system,” said a big mine-owner.  “During peace time it runs all its home administration with men who will certainly be wanted at the front directly there is a war.  Directly war comes, therefore, there is a shift all round, and a new untried man—­usually a dug-out in an advanced state of decay—­is stuck into the job.  Chaos follows automatically.  The War Office always has done this, and so far as one can see it always will.  It seems incapable of realising that another man will be wanted until the first is taken away.  Its imagination doesn’t even run to that.”

Mr. Britling found a kindred spirit in Wilkins.

Wilkins was expounding his tremendous scheme for universal volunteering.  Everybody was to be accepted.  Everybody was to be assigned and registered and—­badged.

“A brassard,” said Mr. Britling.

“It doesn’t matter whether we really produce a fighting force or not,” said Wilkins.  “Everybody now is enthusiastic—­and serious.  Everybody is willing to put on some kind of uniform and submit to some sort of orders.  And the thing to do is to catch them in the willing stage.  Now is the time to get the country lined up and organised, ready to meet the internal stresses that are bound to come later.  But there’s no disposition whatever to welcome this universal offering.  It’s just as though this war was a treat to which only the very select friends of the War Office were to be admitted.  And I don’t admit that the national volunteers would be ineffective—­even from a military point of view.  There are plenty of fit men of our age, and men of proper age who are better employed at home—­armament workers for example, and there are all the boys under the age.  They may not be under the age before things are over....”

He was even prepared to plan uniforms.

“A brassard,” repeated Mr. Britling, “and perhaps coloured strips on the revers of a coat.”

“Colours for the counties,” said Wilkins, “and if there isn’t coloured cloth to be got there’s—­red flannel.  Anything is better than leaving the mass of people to mob about....”

A momentary vision danced before Mr. Britling’s eyes of red flannel petticoats being torn up in a rapid improvisation of soldiers to resist a sudden invasion.  Passing washerwomen suddenly requisitioned.  But one must not let oneself be laughed out of good intentions because of ridiculous accessories.  The idea at any rate was the sound one....