“I want to be an honest man,” said Bertram.
Christy seemed to find that uncommonly amusing.
“My dear Major! The only honest men in the world are those who are dying of starvation. All who have more than that are rogues. I’m one of the worst of hypocrites, for while I bleed at the heart for suffering humanity, I get a good price for the articles in which I describe its torture and disease.”
Bertram suddenly flushed a little, and spoke in a nervous way.
“Christy, I believe I could write, if I tried. In the old days at St. Paul’s, I had a notion—anyhow, I feel I might do something if I had a shot at it. What do you think?”
“You?” said Christy.
That word and its emphasis of surprise were not encouraging, and Bertram found it hard to confess to his friend that he had been writing a book, and believed that at last he had found his object in life, and the impulse he’d been seeking.
“What kind of book?” asked Christy.
“A book on the War.”
Christy groaned, and cried “Kamerad!” with raised hands.