“Precisely,” he said dryly. “Clayton, because he looks like a Greek god, is ideally fitted to lead a lot of men who never saw a bayonet outside of a museum. Against trained fighting men. There's a difference you know, dominie, between a clay pigeon and a German with a bomb in one hand and a saw-toothed bayonet in the other.”
“We did that in the Civil War.”
“We did. And it took four years to fight a six-months war.”
“We must have an army. I daresay you'll grant that.”
“Well, you can bet on one thing; we're not going to have every ward boss who wants to make a record raising a regiment out of his henchmen and leading them to death.”
“What would you suggest?” inquired the rector, rather crestfallen.
“I'd suggest training men as officers. And then—a draft.”
“Never come to it in the world.” Hutchinson spoke up. “I've heard men in the mill talking. They'll go, some of them, but they won't be driven. It would be civil war.”
Clayton glanced at Graham as he replied. The boy was leaning forward, listening.
“There's this to be said for the draft,” he said. “Under the volunteer system the best of our boys will go first. That's what happened in England. And they were wiped out. It's every man's war now. There is no reason why the few should be sacrificed for the many.”