Blenkiron did not look convinced.  ’That’s what they all say.  I talked to a general last week about the coming offensive, and he said he was praying for it to hurry up, for he reckoned Fritz would get the fright of his life.  It’s a good spirit, maybe, but I don’t think it’s sound on the facts.  We’ve got two mighty great armies of fine fighting-men, but, because we’ve two commands, we’re bound to move ragged like a peal of bells.  The Hun’s got one army and forty years of stiff tradition, and, what’s more, he’s going all out this time.  He’s going to smash our front before America lines up, or perish in the attempt . . .  Why do you suppose all the peace racket in Germany has died down, and the very men that were talking democracy in the summer are now hot for fighting to a finish?  I’ll tell you.  It’s because old Ludendorff has promised them complete victory this spring if they spend enough men, and the Boche is a good gambler and is out to risk it.  We’re not up against a local attack this time.  We’re standing up to a great nation going bald-headed for victory or destruction.  If we’re broken, then America’s got to fight a new campaign by herself when she’s ready, and the Boche has time to make Russia his feeding-ground and diddle our blockade.  That puts another five years on to the war, maybe another ten.  Are we free and independent peoples going to endure that much? . . .  I tell you we’re tossing to quit before Easter.’

He turned towards me, and I nodded assent.

‘That’s more or less my view,’ I said.  ’We ought to hold, but it’ll be by our teeth and nails.  For the next six months we’ll be fighting without any margin.’

‘But, my friends, you put it too gravely,’ cried the Frenchman.  ’We may lose a mile or two of ground—­yes.  But serious danger is not possible.  They had better chances at Verdun and they failed.  Why should they succeed now?’

‘Because they are staking everything,’ Blenkiron replied.  ’It is the last desperate struggle of a wounded beast, and in these struggles sometimes the hunter perishes.  Dick’s right.  We’ve got a wasting margin and every extra ounce of weight’s going to tell.  The battle’s in the field, and it’s also in every corner of every Allied land.  That’s why within the next two months we’ve got to get even with the Wild Birds.’

The French Colonel—­his name was de Valliere—­smiled at the name, and Blenkiron answered my unspoken question.

’I’m going to satisfy some of your curiosity, Dick, for I’ve put together considerable noos of the menagerie.  Germany has a good army of spies outside her borders.  We shoot a batch now and then, but the others go on working like beavers and they do a mighty deal of harm.  They’re beautifully organized, but they don’t draw on such good human material as we, and I reckon they don’t pay in results more than ten cents on a dollar of trouble.  But there they are.  They’re the intelligence officers and their business is just to forward noos.  They’re the birds in the cage, the—­what is it your friend called them?’