The men discussed the war news in an interested but remote way, just as they had discussed plagues in India, famines in China, the Boer War. Their sympathies were as wide as humanity; but, after all, these things did not touch them, really and personally, as did the death of Joe Spencer’s little daughter or the burning of a negro cabin with a baby in it. No one said “we� about the war; it was always “they.�
“What do you reckon they will do?� asked Mr. Spotswood. “Will they send an army over, do you think?�
“Oh, no!� Red Mayo answered confidently. “The war will be over before they could send men abroad, even if they had a trained army ready to start. They’ll lend the Allies money; they’ll give some—large amounts, millions, no doubt. And they’ll supply food and munitions; they must hustle around and get ships.�
“The main job will be to get the food to send,� said Mr. Spotswood. “There’s an alarming shortage of grain. I never saw it so scarce and high, since I’ve been milling. The first war work is the farmers’, to raise a bumper crop.�
“Then I’m in war work, father,� said David. “I’m going to beat the record on my corn acre this year.�
Dick laughed. “A poor war worker! Not even a one-horse farmer, just a one-acre boy!�
“My one-acre boy multiplied by hundreds of thousands makes the Boys’ Corn Club a big thing,� said Mr. Spotswood. “Why aren’t you in it, Dick?�
“I’ve got something better to do,� said Dick, confidently and mysteriously.
“Isn’t it strange the Germans don’t see they are beaten?� said Mr. Blair.
“Man, man! What are you talking about?� Black Mayo exclaimed. “Beaten? In three years of war, German soil has been trampled by enemy feet only once, those few days in that first August when the French invaded Alsace. I fear there’s a hard struggle and dark days ahead.�