“But my father?” said Zaidos, alarmed.
The man shrugged his shoulders. “He will die the same whether you come or not. Come!”
A grim look came into the boy’s face. It alarmed the servant.
“Go, go, master,” he begged. “You do not know. They take everyone. What is to be must be. Go, I entreat you, without violence. I do not want to go and tell your father that I have seen you slain before my eyes. I will tell him you are here, and that you will come later.” He drew back and bowed to the officer, who kept a hand on Zaidos’ shoulder.
“Yes, tell him I will come soon,” said Zaidos. “Go to him quickly.”
The man turned and hurried away.
“Give up all thought of going,” said the officer. “It is a pity—one owes a great duty to one’s father; but we need you now. And the need of country comes first.”
“But Greece is not in the war!” said Zaidos as they hurried along the street.
“No, not yet; but there are places enough to guard, so we need more men than we dreamed. But I talk too much. Here is the headquarters. Let me advise you not to bother the Colonel with demands to visit your home.”
They entered the big, dingy room of the police station which had been transformed into a sort of recruiting station. The officer in charge was an overbearing First Lieutenant who was overworked, tired and irritable. He had come from a distant part of Greece, and the name of Zaidos carried no weight with him. He shook his head when Zaidos made his request. He even smiled a little. “Too thin, too thin!” he said. “I should say that all the mothers and fathers, and most of the uncles and aunts and cousins in the world are ill,” he sneered. “No, you can’t go. Get back there in line and wait for your squad to be outfitted.”