Kestrell's lips parted, but before he could speak a boy at the back of the crowd called out:
"I'll come, mister!"
O'Rane raised his hand to silence the interruption.
"I am speaking to Mr. Kestrell," he said, "he knows what war is."
"The working man never wanted this one," Kestrell cried excitedly.
"Nobody in England wanted it. But it's upon us, and the working man is being killed like everyone else. Don't you care to help?"
There was no reply, but the crowd moved restlessly. O'Rane glanced at his watch and picked up his dustcoat from the seat of the car.
"There are two lads here, sir," called a farmer from the left of the circle.
O'Rane shook his head and thrust his arms into the coat.
"Unless Mr. Kestrell comes I prefer to go alone," he said: and then to my uncle, "Shall we get back sir?"