“He who runs may read. In our service a man receives certain payments for his harassing life. The agent lives two lives at one and the same time. He lives the life of the citizen, pays his milk bill, shops with his women friends, breakfasts, lunches, dines, and all the time he is living a second life below the surface. He sees the moves in the war raging about him; he remarks man after man go down. There is no cry. These are the deaths that never get into the papers. If recorded at all they are recorded as accidents or found dead. He sees the messages passed at the street corners, and the friend strolling at his side sees one man giving another a light. He sees this wanted man go by, he sees that sign put up, he asks himself why is this man here, what is that woman doing there? And his friend recognises only the beggar girl whining on the doorstep, and the cabman flourishing his whip.”
We were passing under a street lamp. He had become magnificent. His eyes were shining. He had swollen like a pouter pigeon.
“When the time comes for us to leave the service we cannot. We are offered rest, we are offered peace; at last has come opportunity for our stretched nerves to recover. But we must continue to be au courant with affairs. So nearly every agent dies in harness.
“But, of course, besides receiving payment, an agent pays for this life. He makes payment in several ways. One way is that he finally comes to believe nothing, to trust nobody. He weighs up what his best friend says. And another payment is that the life brings a man in the end to neutral feelings. He is cold sometimes—yes. Wet—yes. Tired—yes. Even a little depressed sometimes. But not elated. Never surprised.
“It’s fifteen years since I was surprised.”
And then at Hyde Park Corner, the place where I had last seen 47, he was gone, and I was left to stroll home alone.
My wife was still up.
“I’ve just met our other friend,” I said, shutting the door.
“What does he say?”
“He’s going over in a day or two. He was at the top of his form.”