He burst like a tempest into Mr. Trupp's consulting room.
"The Army!" he cried. "You're going to send that boy into the Army! Take him a first-class ticket to Hell at once! Where's your Militarism led us? The war's costing us half a million a week! Over a thousand casualties at Paardeberg alone! Rowntree stoned in York; Leonard Courtney boycotted in London; Lloyd George escaping for his life over the house-tops for daring to preach Christ! And you call yourself a Radical, Mr. Trupp!—Shame on you!"
Mr. Trupp listened, amused and patient.
"It's discipline he wants," he said at last. "He's soft and slack. He'll never do any good without it. The artist type like his father."
The other began to blaze again.
"Discipline!" he cried. "You talk like a Prussian drill-sergeant. I tell you that lad's got a soul. You discipline beasts of the field—with a Big Stick; but you grow souls."
Mr. Trupp shook his head.
"We're only just emerging from the mud," he said. "The Brute still lurks in all of us. Watch him or he'll catch you out. And remember the only thing the Brute understands is the Big Stick. Without it he'll either go to sleep—like Ernie; or pounce on some one who has gone to sleep—like Alf."
Mr. Pigott drew himself up. There was about him the dignity of conviction.
"Mr. Trupp," he said. "Fear never made a man yet. Faith's the thing."