"Most wars are that, my friend, but as long as the boys I was at school with are being shot down ... Good-bye ... if you won't come?"
There was no answer, and the two faced each other until Kestrell's eyes fell. O'Rane's voice sank and took on a softer tone.
"If it's ever right to shed blood, this is the time," he said. "We'll see it through together, side by side——"
"You're an officer!" Kestrell interjected, as a man worsted in an argument will seize on a slip of grammar.
"I'm nothing at present. If you'll come, we'll go into the ranks together. Get another friend on your other side—no man comes with us unless he brings a friend,—and if only one's hit, the other can bring back word of him. Why won't you shake hands, Kestrell? This is the morning of our greatest day."
That night Bertrand, Loring and I motored back to town alone. Until we said good-bye in Knightsbridge, hardly a word had passed between us, but as Loring and I shook hands I remarked:
"Well, you see how it's done? It took ten minutes instead of seven as he promised, but the meeting stampeded all right."
"I've seen it done," he answered. "Seeing how it's done is a different thing."
We were all charged with something of O'Rane's electric personality that night, but at breakfast next morning Bertrand set himself to undo the effects of the Easterly meeting in so far as they concerned O'Rane.