had extended his left hand and was beating his
points into it with the handle of his stick. "See that?"

Sabre was not in the mood to see anything. He only wanted to be away.

"No, I'm dashed if I do. What are we going to fight on the Continent
for--supposing we ever do have to fight anywhere?"

The stick hammered away again. "Because we've got _obligations_ there.
We've got to defend Belgium, for one. And if we hadn't--if we hadn't any
obligations we'd pretty soon, we'd damn soon find them as soon as ever
Germany breaks loose. That's what these National Service Johnnies ought
to tell the people, that's what Bobs ought to tell them, that's what
these blasted politicians ought to tell them: you don't want National
Service to defend your perishing homes. The Navy's going to do that. You
want it like hell because you've got to defend your _lives_--out there."
He waved his stick towards "out there." "My God!" he said. He was
consumed with the intensity of his own emotions. "My God!"

Despite himself, Sabre was impressed. The man would have impressed
anybody. His eyes were extraordinarily penetrating. There actually were
tiny little points of perspiration about his nose.

"I never thought about that," Sabre said doubtfully. "I never thought
there were any obligations. I doubt any member of the Government would
admit there were any."

"I know damn well they wouldn't," Otway declared. "And they'd be helped
to deny it, or to evade it, by the howl of laughter there'd be in the
Commons if any one had the guts to get up and ask if we had any
obligations. There's no joke goes down like that sort of joke. Well--"
His manner changed. He tucked his stick under his arm and took out a
silver cigarette case. "Cigarette? Well--they'll laugh the other side of
their chuckle heads one of these days."

Sabre took a cigarette. "You're pretty sure there's going to be a war,
aren't you?"

The extraordinary man, who had become smiling and airy, immediately
became extraordinary again. He had struck a match, held it to Sabre's
cigarette, and was applying it to his own. He extinguished it with
violent jerks of his arm and dashed it on to the pavement. "Sure? My
God, sure? I tell you, Sabre, you won't be five years, I don't believe
you'll be two years, one year, older before you'll not only be
sure--you'll know! I've just finished a course at the Staff College, you
know. We finished up with a push over to Belgium to do the battlefields.
We