“In the meantime,” said Jimmie, with ponderous solemnity, “McCluskey told me this morning that the Third Ambulance Corps came up last night. It came on the Frederick road. Not more’n about seven miles from here.”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“With Mrs. Sessions?” asked the boy innocently. “Nothing, except that she’s quartered with that corps. I know. Because McCluskey showed me the list of nurses there.”
“Son,” said Dad, after glaring coldly at the wholly unimpressed lad for a full minute, “let’s go for a ride. I’m off duty for three hours yet.”
“Fine!” agreed Jimmie. “We’ll go any direction you like, except, perhaps, toward Frederick. The scenery isn’t as pretty out that way.”
“Jimmie,” observed Dad, “there are times when I feel that a spanking would do you worlds of good!”
CHAPTER XXVI
THE IRON CHESS-GAME
WAR is not a matter of prancing steeds, troops charging, heroic feats of arms. These spectacular adjuncts typify war as the little finger-nail of one hand might typify the whole human body.
War itself is a huge problem in mathematics; combined with an element of puzzle and gross chance.
In short, a game. An iron game, more like chess in its general mode of playing than any other.