“Constitutional. I’ve never been able to do things like other fellows. The least thing bowls me out.”
“Hard lines—especially just now!” the soldier would murmur.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Doggie would answer.
Doggie never questioned his physical incapacity. His mother had brought him up to look on himself as a singularly frail creature, and the idea was as real to him as the war. He went about pitying himself and seeking pity.
The months passed. The soldiers moved away from Durdlebury, and Doggie was left alone in his house. He felt solitary and restless. News came from Oliver that he had accepted an infantry commission and was in France. “A month of this sort of thing,” he wrote, “would make our dear old Doggie sit up.” Doggie sighed. If only he had been blessed with Oliver’s constitution!
One morning Briggins, his chauffeur, announced that he could stick it out no longer and was going to enlist. Then Doggie remembered a talk he had had with one of the young officers, who had expressed astonishment at his not being able to drive a car.
“I shouldn’t have the nerve,” he had replied. “My nerves are all wrong—and I shouldn’t have the strength to change tires and things.”
But now Doggie was confronted by the necessity of driving his own car, for chauffeurs were no longer to be had. To his amazement, he found that he did not die of nervous collapse when a dog crossed the road in front of the automobile, and that the fitting of detachable wheels did not require the strength of a Hercules. The first time he took Peggy out driving, he swelled with pride.
“I’m so glad you can do something!” she said, after a silence.
Although the girl was as kind as ever, Doggie had noticed of late a curious reserve in her manner. Conversation did not flow easily. She had fits of abstraction, from which, when rallied, she roused herself with an effort. Finally, one day, Peggy asked him blankly why he did not enlist.