It was a weird city, in its semi-darkness of war. The streets were full of clamour—rattling of traffic, sharp ringing of tram-bells and the hooting of motors, and, above every other sound the piercing cries of newsboys—“Speshul! War Speshul!” Motor-buses, great red structures that towered like cars of Juggernaut, rattled by them, their drivers darting in and out among the traffic with amazing skill. Taxi-cabs went by in a solid stream. The pavements were a dense mass of jostling, hurrying people. And in whatever direction they looked were soldiers—men in khaki, with quiet, purposeful faces.
“Heaps and heaps of them aren’t a day older than I am!” Wally declared, gleefully, bringing his head in. “Look at that little officer over there! Why, I might be his uncle! If they are taking kids like that, Jim, they can’t refuse you and me!”
“They won’t refuse you,” David Linton said, gravely, looking at the brown faces—Jim’s, quiet, but full of determination; Wally’s vivid with excitement. There was no doubt that they were excellent war material—quite too good to refuse.
Norah’s hand closed on his in the darkness. The same thought had come to them both. The long voyage, with its comparative peace, was behind them: ahead was only war, and all that it might mean to the boys. The whole world suddenly centred round the boys. London was nothing; England, nothing, except for what it stood for; the heart of Empire. And the Empire had called the boys.
CHAPTER XX.
THE THING THAT COUNTS.
“LITTLE chap!—you mustn’t mind like that.”
Norah kept her face from the room, looking out into the hurrying London street. Something quite unfamiliar was in her throat—a hard, hot lump. She felt Jim’s hand on her shoulder, but she would not look at him until she had mastered the lump’s determination to choke her.
She turned to him in a moment.