“Oh, just the little old Army! You’re not going to be out of the fun, are you?”
Mr. Smith shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m too old,” he said. “Men of my age aren’t wanted—it’s youngsters like you and those boys. Very useful you’ll be, if you get there. But for me—well, there is the Rifle Club of which I’m a member; and they may make me a special constable. That requires heroism, if you like—to march up and down a sloppy London street in the pouring rain for four hours each night, knowing just how much use you would be if anything went wrong.”
“But why wouldn’t you be of use?” Norah asked.
“Why?—because I am not young. Nobody is much use who is elderly—and fat. One gets flabby and one’s muscles become soft and limp. Only one’s head remains. Therefore, I cultivate my head.”
“For the sake of your country?” Grantham asked, laughing.
Mr. Smith nodded.
“Just so—for the sake of my country. We cannot all serve in the same way. Somewhere or other there will be a job of work for me, and I shall try to hold down my job, as the Americans say. No one can do more than that.” He laughed good-humouredly. “So when you are marching by in khaki, you can spare a thought for the poor, chilly special constable who keeps the streets clear for you to pass, or performs some equally dull and ordinary duty—and gets no fun out of it; not even a medal.”
“You under-rate your capabilities, Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “No one who saw you racing down the pier at Melbourne could regard you as either elderly or decrepit.”
“Well—perhaps not yet. But fat—yes!” Mr. Smith smiled deprecatingly, casting a downward glance at his ample figure. “I fear I am no longer a stayer; and in a trench I would certainly take up too much room. So I curb my ambitions. But there will be a job for me somewhere, though it may not be a showy one.” His smile widened, including all the little group; then the chief engineer passed, and Mr. Smith fell into step with him and strolled off along the deck.