“Maybe Jerry wur Satan’s before he wur Ivy’s,” said Tom sharply; then felt ashamed as he met the minister’s eyes with their tortured glow.
“Maybe you’re right. This is Satan’s hour. He’s got us all for a season, and this War is his last kick before the Angel of the Lord chains him down in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. These are the days of which the Scripture saith, that unless the Lord should shorten them for the Elect’s sake, no man could be saved.”
“I guess we’ve nearly done the Lord’s job. The perishers are even more fed up than us, which is putting it strong. Let ’em start this Big Push of theirn as thur’s bin such a talk about. Doan’t you vrother about Jerry, Mus’ Sumption—he’ll be shut of this girl before long, and you’ll git him back here and wed him to a good soul as ull do better fur him than Ivy.”
Mr. Sumption shook his head.
“This is the war which shall end the world.”
“Reckon I aun’t going out there, away from my wife and child and home, all among the whizz-bangs and the coal-boxes, and git all over mud and lice, jest to help on the end of the world. This world’s good enough fur me, and I hope it’ll go on a bit longer after peace is signed, so as I’ll git a chance of enjoying it.”
“And they shall reign with Him a thousand years.”
Tom was a little weary of Mr. Sumption in this mood; however, he felt sorry for him, and let him run on.
“You must be blind indeed,” continued the minister, “if you don’t see how the Scriptures have been fulfilled—nation against nation and kingdom against kingdom, and the Holy City given back to the Jews, and the sun turned to darkness with the clouds of poisoned gas, and the moon to blood ... the blood of the poor souls that are killed in moonlight air-raids....”
Tom knocked out his pipe.