"A doxer's generally a man—a man who smiles too agreeably and moves his head and body about in a funny way directly he gets among strangers. But never mind the doxers or the prinkers, either. I want to listen to this piece by Sibelius."
The strange fear of the future clutched at my throat more and more. It got to be almost more than I could bear when a little later the most spirited of the school songs swelled into the air, sung by scores of voices:
"Jolly, oh, jolly at eve...."
A sob rose up within me and it was only with difficulty that I forced it back.
"What's the matter, Big Yeogh Wough?" whispered the boy beside me.
"It's that song. It's a lovely school song, but it's the saddest thing I've ever heard in my life. It seems to me that I can see generation after generation of boys rising and passing along—passing along to doom."
Under cover of the music Little Yeogh Wough spoke in a whisper again:
"It's a grand doom, anyhow—if you mean dying for one's country. Don't you think it's better to have your name on the walls of that chapel as having died fighting than to live a long, smooth life at home?"
"Yes, of course it is." I pulled myself together and spoke the truth as I knew it. "They've got the best of it, all right—those boys who died. But still—it's doom."
"No! No! It's glory."