There was a hush in the room, and into that hush came the strains of a military band playing a regiment to the neighbouring railway station. It played the familiar marching tune of the old days, and a flaw of wind brought masculine voices in the uplift of the chorus.
"... There's a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
For the boys are home!"
"They're coming back!" cried Captain Hathaway. "Coming back in their thousands and their millions—officers and men—your sons at the head of the men they have learned to love! Comrades that can never be estranged! We're the new generation, gentlemen—the old order has gone—never to return—we've come back, Swain and I, from the borders of death that has taught us how precious life may be."
The heads, bald and florid, of that obese elder generation turned in a community of curious interest, to gaze at Swain—the man who had nerved his fellows to withstand an economic pressure they had thought irresistible and was now hailed as comrade by their own young chief.
The ex-soldier took a step forward.
"I should just like to say this, sirs—we men know what it is to have good officers—and we've never let 'em down. We've come back, officers and men, and officers like Captain Hathaway will always find their men work for them as they used to fight—for officers like him make us feel the Old Country is worth working for as it was worth fighting for. We've learnt to play the game—and we'll play it so long as we have fair play. The British soldier has learnt to die rather than surrender—and the British soldier is just the British working-man."
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