"What will you think in the years to come if I go down in this war, Big Yeogh Wough?"
"What shall I think? Well, first of all, I shall be proud. I shall honour you very much—more than if you had lived to make yourself a king. But, just because you are you, I shall think it is a waste unless you get your death in doing a little more than an ordinary man would do. Look at your muscular body! I've thought of the wonder of it ever since the day when I first saw you boxing. What's the good of it in this war? It's no more good to resist flying bullets or shell splinters than an old tottering man's body. That's where I should feel bitter. These times are women's times and this war of machinery might as well be carried on by women, for all the good that male muscle can do in it. And yet they go and take the pick of the boys and let a stray bit of shell finish off in a second a splendid human creature whose mind might have been the driving force of the nation in a few years to come! That's where the pity of it would be if anything happened to you."
"But nothing is going to happen to me. You forget my lucky lock."
He lifted my hand and guided it to the curious little white patch at the side of his cropped head.
"You forget, too, that the fellow at school who knew all about palmistry told me he was sure I was not going to get killed till I was close on sixty. So, you see, I shall be quite safe in this war. They're not likely to add one more to the noonday strokes of the old School bell for me."
"The strokes of the old School bell? What do you mean?"
"Oh! Haven't you heard? The School bell tolls once at noon every day for every Old Boy who has lost his life in this war. They've got up to fifty-two strokes already and it's sure to go mounting up now by leaps and bounds. There are so many of us out there fighting."
Again I was struck by his tired-out look. I drew myself from his hold and got up from my knees.
"You must go to bed now," I told him. "I will go away for ten minutes and when I come back I must find you in bed."