"What the hell has that——" began Jimmy; then stopped dead, blushing. "Excuse me, Mr. Hunt; but books, somehow—just now—they don't seem so important as—see?"
"Not quite, Jimmy. After all, the real struggle's always between ideas, isn't it? We can't perfect the world with guns and ambulances, Jimmy."
"Maybe not," said Jimmy dryly.
"It's quite possible," I insisted, "that Phil's book might accomplish more for humanity, in the long run, than anything he could do at his age in Flanders."
"Susan could come home and write plays," said Jimmy; "good ones, too. But she won't. You can bet on that, sir."
"I've never believed in war, Jimmy; never believed it could possibly help us onward."
"Maybe it can't," interrupted Jimmy. "I've never believed in cancer, either; it's very painful and kills a lot of people. You'd better come with us, sir. You'll be sorry you didn't—if you don't."
"Why? You know my ideas on nonresistance, Jimmy."
"Oh, ideas!" grunted Jimmy. "I know you're a white man, Mr. Hunt. That's enough for me. I'm not worrying much about your ideas."
"But whatever we do, Jimmy, there's an idea behind it; there must be."