“Not badly wounded, I hope?”
“Nothing to signify—a couple of machine-gun bullets in the forearm. The second time was worser. That was at a place somewhere in the ’Indenburg line, spring of last year. ’En-in-’Ell, or some such name. Bert copped a sweet one that time—bit o’ shell-splinter as big as me ’and. It was nearly a year before ’e was fit to go back. You see—”
But the old gentleman had laid an indignant hand on the other father’s shoulder.
“You mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that your son, twice badly wounded, has been sent back to the firing-line again?”
“I do. He’s there now.”
For the second time that day the old gentleman began to shake his fist.
“It’s monstrous!” he shouted. “It’s damnable! They did the same thing to my boy—my only surviving boy! It’s this infernal system of throwing all the burden on the willing horse—this miserable cringing to so-called Labour!” He choked. “The Government.… If I were Lloyd George.…” He exploded. “Pah!”
“Never mind,” said a soothing voice from the interior of the cab. “If he won’t go, he won’t. Besides, it’s no use making him violent. I dare say I shall be able to get another taxi. Will you please open this door, Constable? It seems to have stuck.”
The two parents stopped short, guiltily conscious of having strayed from their text. Al Thompson addressed the driver.