Then after a whisper and several uneasy glances back at their companions, one of the forward party acted as spokesman.
“You see, Mr Blunt, sir,” he said, “we don’t feel that we should be at home fighting. We are clerks and writers, warehousemen. We all think—”
“No, we don’t,” growled one of the men who had stood fast.
“But you all agreed just now that it would be better to chance it and go.”
“Yes, a bit back,” said another of the men; “but six of us here, after seeing you step out, feel as if it would be un-English to sneak off and leave Mr Blunt and the young partner in the lurch. You fellows look as if you are ashamed of yourselves.”
“That’s about what I am,” said one of the party with the spokesman. “I’m going to stop.”
As he said these words he stepped back into the rear rank.
“Same here,” said another; and he too dropped back.
“Oh, I say,” said another; “it’s shabby to leave us here like this.”
“Shabby? It’s dirty,” cried the spokesman. “I wouldn’t have said what I did for all of you if I’d known. Hang me if I’m going almost alone!”