Oligarchy aforesaid, there will
be a Revolution. That's all! Oh, they're a sweet lot, the British
newspaper bosses!"

"But what," inquired that earnest seeker after knowledge, Mr. Waddell,
"is the general attitude of the country at large upon this grave
question?"

Captain Wagstaffe chuckled.

"The dear old country at large," he replied, "is its dear old self,
as usual. It is not worrying one jot about Conscription, or us,
or anything like that. The one topic of conversation at present
is--Charlie Chaplin."

"Who is Charlie Chaplin?" inquired several voices.

Wagstaffe shook his head.

"I haven't the faintest idea," he said. "All I know is that you can't
go anywhere in London without running up against him. He is It. The
mention of his name in a _revue_ is greeted with thunders of applause.
At one place I went to, twenty young men came upon the stage at once,
all got up as Charlie Chaplin."

"But who _is_ he?"

"That I can't tell you. I made several attempts to find out; but
whenever I asked the question people simply stared at me in amazement.
I felt quite ashamed: it was plain that I ought to have known. I have
a vague idea that he is some tremendous new boss whom the Government
have appointed to make shells, or something. Anyhow, the great British
Nation is far too much engrossed with Charles to worry about a little
thing like Conscription. Still, I should like to know. I feel I have
been rather unpatriotic about it all."

"I can tell you," said Bobby Little. "My servant is a great admirer of
his. He is the latest cinema star. Falls off roofs, and gets run over
by motors--"

"And keeps the police at bay with a firehose," added Wagstaffe.
"That's him! I know the type. Thank you, Bobby!"

Major Kemp put down his glass with a gentle sigh, and rose to go.

"We are a great nation," he remarked contentedly. "I was a bit anxious
about things at home, but I see now there was nothing to worry about.
We shall win all right. Well, I am off to the Mess. See you later,
everybody!"

"Meanwhile," inquired Wagstaffe, as the party settled down again,
"what is brewing here! I haven't seen the adjutant yet."

"You'll see him soon enough," replied Blaikie grimly. He glanced over
his shoulder towards the four civilian card-players. They looked
bourgeois enough and patriotic enough, but it is wise to take no
risks in a cafe, as a printed notice upon the war, signed by the
Provost-Marshal, was careful to point out. "Com