“Did you kill lots of men—yourself? How many have you killed?” Jack inquired eagerly, but the General refused to be specific.
“I prefer not to think. It’s not a pleasant recollection. When the world is a little older, let us hope we shall find some better way of settling a quarrel than seeing who can kill off the most men. What are you going to be when you are a man, Mr Jack? Going in for a profession?”
Jack’s face fell. For personal questions, especially questions referring to his studies, he had a strong distaste. He wriggled on his chair, and mumbled between his lips—
“Trying for a scholarship. Half fees for the next three years. If I get it father will send me on to Cambridge. He wants me to be a doctor, and help him in the practice when he gets old.”
“And you?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders.
“I’d like to be a surgeon. It would be fine patching people up, setting their bones, and trying things no one had dared to do before; but I couldn’t stand driving round every day to look after their wretched colds, and vaccinate the babies. I’d like to be an army doctor best of all.”
“Humph! Would you! Much you know about it. I fancy you’d soon be thankful to take on the babies in exchange. Well, I’ve only one piece of advice to give you, my boy: never be persuaded to take up a career into which you cannot throw your whole heart and soul. You are responsible for your life’s work, and will have to account for it some day. Don’t make things harder by drifting into uncongenial surroundings. You look to me like a young fellow who might drift. Too easy-going by half!”
Jack flushed uncomfortably. He hated being criticised, especially when the criticism was true, as conscience proclaimed the present indictment to be. There came to him every now and then moments of illumination, when, as if a flashlight was suddenly played over the future, he realised that he would soon be a man, with a man’s duties and responsibilities to himself and to others, and that these years of preparation were his training-ground for the fight, concerning the spending of which he would either rejoice or sorrow all his life long. At such moments the blood tingled in his veins, and he felt strong to do all things, and deny himself all things, if only the goal could be reached; but the vision soon faded, and he relapsed once more into careless, happy-go-lucky ways, caring more for a “lark” than for any solid gain, present or to come.
The old man stared at the boy for a moment,—seemed as if about to add something to his denunciation, but changed his mind, and addressed Jill instead.