“It’s horrible, too horrible,” he said. “Oh God! Bloodshed! Bloodshed!”
“Cheer up,” I said, “I don’t think a single man on either side has been hit yet.”
“I say,” said Bland from the window, “did the soldiers get orders to fire over the people’s heads?”
“Yes,” said Clithering. “Strict orders. The Cabinet was unanimous. The Prime Minister telegraphed this morning.”
“Rather rough on the peaceable inhabitants of the town,” said Bland, “the men who have kept out of the battle. I suppose you forgot that bullets come down again somewhere.”
“I was in one of the back streets,” wailed Clithering, “far away—”
“Exactly,” said Bland, “it’s just in back streets that those things happen.”
“It was a woman,” said Clithering, “a girl with a baby in her arms. I did not know what had happened. I ran over to her. She and the baby—both of them. I shall never forget it. Oh!”
Then he was sick again. Clithering is a highly civilized man. I suppose one must be highly civilized if one is to keep pace with the changing fashions in stockings. It was out of what is called “Fancy Hosiery” that Clithering made most of his money. I felt very sorry for him, but his performances were making me feel sick too. I joined Bland again at the window.