“You’ve got to go back home,” said Phineas. “You’ve got to whip up all the moral courage in you and go back to Durdlebury.”
“I won’t,” said Doggie, “I can’t. I’d sooner die than go back there disgraced. I’d sooner enlist as a private soldier.”
“Enlist?” repeated Phineas, and he drew himself up straight and gaunt. “Well, why not?”
“Enlist?” echoed Doggie, in a dull tone. “As a Tommy?”
“As a Tommy,” replied Phineas.
“Enlist!” murmured Doggie. He thought of the alternatives—flight, which was craven; home, which he could not bear. Doggie rose from his chair with a new light in his eyes. He had come to the supreme moment of his life; he had made his great resolution. Yes, he would enlist as a private soldier in the British army.
III
A year later Doggie Trevor returned to Durdlebury. He had been laid up in hospital with a wounded leg, the result of fighting the German snipers in front of the first line trenches, and he was now on his way back to France. Durdlebury had not changed in the interval; it was Marmaduke Trevor that had changed. He measured about ten inches more around the chest than the year before, and his hands were red and calloused from hard work. He was as straight as an Indian now, and in his rough khaki uniform of a British private he looked every bit a man—yes, and more than that, a veteran soldier. For Doggie had passed through battle after battle, gas attacks, mine explosions, and months of dreary duty in water-filled trenches, where only brave and tough men could endure. He had been tried in the furnace and he had come out pure gold.
Doggie entered the familiar Deanery, and was met by Peggy with a glad smile of welcome. His uncle, the Dean, appeared in the hall, florid, whitehaired, benevolent, and extended both hands to the homecoming warrior.
“My dear boy,” he said, “how glad I am to see you! Welcome back! And how’s the wound?”